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HIGH-WAYS AND BY-WAYS; 


TALES OF THE ROADSIDE: 


PICKED UP IN THE FRENCH PROVINCES, 
BY 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN. 


«« T hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and 
say ’Tis all barren !” Sterne. 


FOURTH EDITION. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 
VOU. 1. 


LONDON : 


PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, 
AVE-MARIA=LANE,. 


1824. 


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THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED, 


BY 


HIS ADMIRER AND FRIEND, 


THE AUTHOR. 


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PREFACE, PROLOGUE, AVANT-PROPOS, 


OR 


INTRODUCTION. 


‘* The nature of a preface is rambling, never wholly out of the 
way, Nor in it.” 
DRYDEN. 


PREFACE, PROLOGUE, AVANT-PROPOS, 
OR 


INTRODUCTION. 


Ir unencumbered men who travel for pleasure 
knew half the pleasures of travelling on foot, 
post-masters and carriage-owners would soon 
be left to the patronage of those who have the 
happiness, or the misery, of beg married; to 


effeminate striplings, and old bachelors. 


Who, with the life and spirit of youth within 
him, blessed with health, and sound in mind, 
would choose to waste his weary hours in the 


solitude of a post-chaise, or pay his money at a 


x PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 


diligence-office,in proportion to the speed which 
hurries him through all that might interest a 


rational man ? 


Who, with limbs to move on, and a heart to 
feel, would abandon the companionship of na- 
ture’s self; encage his body in a public vehicle ; 
and stifle the young buds of thought in its con- 


tracted atmosphere ? 


Can we expect to know a people by such 
flying association? Is it among travellers, every 
one of whom might on his journey doubt his 
own identity ;—from the merchant counting on 
his fingers in the corner,—from the lover whose 
thoughts fly back in a direct ratio with the 
haste of his advance, and whose eyes are so 
full of his absent mistress, that he thinks he 
sees her in the gruff old lady, feeding her parrot 
on the seat before him;—is it from the friend, 


the parent, or the child, who, going to meet the 


AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XI 


holy happiness of domestic welcome, thinks 
the carriage retrogrades ;—is it from these the 
foreign traveller would look for national fact 
or individual reality; or in their random and 
undigested chatter hope to find a mine of sound 


and valuable truth ? 


No, no, sir! take your knapsack, and your 
stick, and walk! Linger, and lounge, and loiter 
on the way. Throw yourself among the people, 
as if you came by chance, and not from cu- 
riosity. Spend a day here, and a week there. 
Be generous, but not profuse. Excite grati- 
tude, not envy. Let information flow in gush- 
ing springs, but do not strive to force it up by 
pumping. Do all this, and a little time will show 


you how wise you have become. 


I am answered, perhaps, that time is not 
given to all men in the same profuseness ; that 


where I have a year to spare, another may 


XU PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 


have but a month. Then, I reply, spend your 
month with profit. Measure at the end of it 
the minds you have analysed, not the leagues 
you have driven over; and if you have but 
sauntered through one district of a foreign na- 
tion, in communion with the inhabitants, you 
are better informed than he who has galloped 
from Calais to Paris, and thence to Florence, 
Rome, and Naples. 


But a crusty opponent might say that this is 
all labour in vain,—tell me that most men travel 
merely to talk of it*, or that “ Voyager est un 
triste plaisir +,” cite the Scotch proverb, “Sen 
a fool to France, and he’ll come back a fool,” — 


quote, gravely, if he will, 


* “Va curiosité n’est que vanité ; le plus souvent on ne 
veut savoir que pour en parler; on ne voyagerait pas sur 
mer pour ne jamais en rien dire, et pour le seul plaisir de 
voir, sans espérance de s’en entretenir avec personne.” 

PASCAL. 


+ Madame de Stael. 


AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION.  Xili 


«‘ Dans maint auteur, de science profonde, 
J’ai lu qu’on perd a trop courir le monde *.” 


and add to these authorities, that if the object 
is knowledge, it may be had at home; that the 
external features of all countries pretty nearly 
resemble one another; that towns and villages 
are composed of the same kind of materials ; 
and that man himself is every where the same, 
a two-legged animal without feathers. Why 
then go out of our way to explore the outward 
show of things, or even the nooks and crevices 


of human nature 2 


Such reasoner would be quickly yelped at 
by the open-mouthed pack, which sweeps 
through foreign scenes, barking or baying at 
men or the moon; and he would be stung by 
the drones who hum, and buzz, and flutter over 
all, but bring back not one drop of honey to 


the hive. 


* Gresset. 


XIV PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 


Yet there is some justness in the cavil of my 
cynic. Nature has made all things of the same 
stuff, and distributed them in nearly the same 
proportions. Man, the great master-piece, 7s 
every where the same: five to six feet in height, 
and seventy years of life: four-limbed and two- 
handed ; with five senses, thirty-four cerebral 
organs, and one, two, or more ideas—as it may 
be. Such is his common form and medium 
definition. A straggling monster may now and 
then shock us as less, or startle us as more 
than man; but the lover of miracle and marvel 
seeks in vain for a group of Cyclops, or a race 
of giants. ‘The grosser works of the creation, 
too, are all confined within certain limits. Cli- 
mate, indeed, is comparatively cold or hot; but 
a fire or a pair of bellows can transport the 
mind, through the medium of the senses, from 
the frigid to the torrid zone, and vice versd. 
Unsightly monsters, pillars, or even temples, 


may be brought to us by ships. We cannot, 


AVANT=-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XV 


to be sure, carry off mountains or rivers; but, 
if we will be satisfied with miniature models, let 
us turn to our own romantic hills and lovely 
streams, and we shall only want a magnifying 
glass to show us all that nature holds of the sub- 


lime and beautiful. 


Yet all this is not enough, at least for us, 
who, laughing at the theories of the disparaging 
physiologists, believe man better than the brutes. 
To know him rightly, we must travel: not his 
stature, nor his deeds—description and history 
tell us these—but his mind and his feelings 
can be laid open, his resemblance to or con- 
trast with ourselves be displayed, only by the 
actual intercourse of heart with heart, and 
soul with soul, when every artificial exhibition 
is gone by, and every cunning caution lulled to 


rest. 


This is not to be done at home; at least I 


can neyer understand the biped of my own 


XVl PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 


locality. There I move as in a family circle. 
Every Englishman is a brother to the rest; 
and though one may grumble in a louder key, 
or another growl in a deeper tone, still the social 
resemblance is the same. I go into a distant 
county, and I meet new faces, but not one 
mind seems strange tome. I fancy I know all 
that passes in each round and honest-looking 
head; yet the brain within is often spreading a 
veil to keep its secrets from my view; and every 
idea coiling itself up like a rattlesnake, to hide 
its real extent, and hit me the hardest when I 


think myself most safe. 


Thus it is, that by the confidence of the ob- 
server, and the caution of those he works on, by 
common resemblances and sympathies, we are as 
unable to know the character of our countrymen 


as we are to depict our own. 


And in looking on the natural features of my 


country the analogy holds good. The land- 


AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XVII 


scape, the rosy cheeks, and fair complexions, 
seem all to have been growing up with me from 
earliest youth, and to be identified with every 
hour of my existence. Every thing is familiar, 
because it has been so long within my reach; 
and though I may be absent from my proper 
fire-side, still I have passed no line. I have 
slided on in harmony and in tune, from dolce to 
Sorte ; from major to minor ; from the subject to 
the variation, and back again; but in three or 
four days, at farthest, I can be sure of sitting in 
my own chair, and of poking my own poker 


between the bars of my own grate. 


But let me cross the channel, and I feel 
instantly the magic of imagination. I already 
breathe freer, although still in sight of Dover. 
I am hotter, though the climate is the same. I 
tread cautiously, and pick my steps, although 
the roads be of the like materials, or the soils 
be similar. I see mortality around me—flourish- 


VOL. I. b 


XVlil PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 


ing, decaying, dead—just as I left it behind. 
I look in the faces before me. I pore over, 
search, and scrutinize. I mark on every hand 
a novelty or a wonder ;—yet all the while I am 
reading in the same old book, only that it is 
decked up in a different binding. But so it is. 
We want this stimulus to give action to our 
mental energies; and we find as mighty a dif- 
ference between man in England and man in 
France, as we do between a plain mutton-chop 


and a cotelette a la maintenon. 


Let us then travel; and if we do so with our 
eyes open (I mean the eyes of the mind), we 
shall return home wiser than when we set out, 
but knowing nothing more than we might have 
known before we started. The sum of all is, 
the defectiveness of man. The knowledge that 
let circumstances debase him here, or elevate 
him there; let him show in this century his fair 


side, or in that his foul ; he is still, in all seasons 


AVANT-PROPOS, Ok INTRODUCTION. XIX 


and all climes, essentially the same; thirsting 
and toiling for perfectibility, but doomed, by 
the very nature of the struggle, to prove his 


irredeemable imperfection. 


As to the prejudice with which we are loaded, 
it is the disease of our nature. Every nation 
possesses the virus, but we inoculate with it. 
We nurture it as an antidote against something 
worse; and on quitting England lay in a plenti- 


ful fund, as if it were an amulet, 


Sans quoi le coeur, victime des dangers, 
Revient chargé de vices étrangers. 


But let us see our illiberality in its true light. 
It is the evil of isolation, and a tax paid for se- 
curity. It is therefore, perhaps, neither a fault 
nor a misfortune. With its acknowledged pos- 
session we may safely say that, in many of the 
substantial advantages of life, we are superior 

b 2 


XX PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 


to our neighbours,—but are we so in all? ‘That 
we have the unamiable folly to believe so is the 
fact; but this is not the place to examine its 
causes. It is enough to know that they exist, 
and that after a long course of culture, they 
generally end in the Englishman landing on 
the shores of France, louring and black, and 


charged with prejudice, as a thunder-cloud with 
electricity. 


Every thing he first observes is a kind of 
moral paratonnére, to draw down the flash of his 
disdain. ‘The lazy-looking people; the dirty 
inns; the beggarly appearance of the open 
country, and the wild uncomfortable aspect 
of the towns, with their formidable barriers 
and strict police, give but melancholy notions 
of French vivacity, liberty, or enjoyment. He 
hurries through these outposts of information, 
and reaches the capital. There he sees no- 


thing but splendid misery and comfortless mag- 


AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. xXl 


nificence ; palaces and promenades,—the one 
hemmed round with hovels, the other intrenched 
in mud, Thus viewing the superficies of things 
he gallops on; returns by a different, or per- 
haps, the same track; sees in every new place 
the counterpart of what he left behind; and, 
springing at last upon the pier at Dover, raises 
his hands in thankfulness to find himself again 


on the world’s sole enviable spot of earth *. 


Another class, despising this species of tra- 


veller, and resolved to do better, set them- 


* T cannot refrain from quoting here a sentence of 
Voltaire, so much in the spirit of true philosophy, that I 
should have chosen it for my motto, had it not been in a 
foreign language. “Si les nations de Europe, au lieu 
de se mépriser injustement les unes les autres, voulaient 
faire une attention moins superficielle aux ouvrages et 
aux manieres de leurs voisins, non pas pour en rire, mais 
pour en profiter, peut-étre de ce commerce mutuel d’ob- 
servations naitrait ce go‘it général qu’on cherche si inu- 
tilement.” 

Essai sur LES MeuRS, &c. 


XXil PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 


selves down in France—but where? In some 
well-recommended town, swarming with their 
countrymen, where every thing—society, man- 
ners, time, and even temperature, are en- 
deavoured to be regulated on the English plan. 
They meet French people, and they see French 
character; but the first in masquerade, and the 
latter in its worst point of view. A vitiated 
emulation is the impulse of the natives. They 
want the homely honest simplicity of rustic life, 
and have not the stores of information which 
abound in Paris. But they have pretensions 
to every thing, and are, in comparison to the 
capital, what a shallow pool is to a great river ; 
reflecting on their surface the mightiest objects, 
without depth to embrace their extent, or force 


to bear their weight. 


It is not in towns, then, we must expect to 
find true national traits, but least of all in 


French towns. Still one field is open to the 


AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. Xxill 


true observer—a country residence; where, 
‘ separate from English pride and French pre- 
sumption, he may display and look upon their 
contrasts. Here let a family fix; for if good 
fellowship, good-nature, true politeness, and 
heartfelt humanity exist on earth, I do believe 
them to be found in the quiet circle of such in- 
tercourse. ‘That faults are even here is but too 
true; but what would we have? Perfection? 


Alas! alas! 


But I want to write tales, not dissertations ; 
instead of speculations, to give facts; in place 
of essays, anecdotes. I would rather shake a 
prejudice, than build a pyramid; and as a straw 
can decide the inclination of a balance, so, per- 
haps, may these volumes fix the bias of some un- 
determined mind. When I flung aside the staff 
that bore me on my pilgrimage, and took up the 
pen that was to note down a portion of its pro- 


gress, I did so in the hope of contributing my 


XX1V PREFACE, PROLOGUE, &c. 


mite towards an act of national justice. ‘The 
means I employ are humble; the pretension 
which puts them forward less than nothing. I 
look to public indulgence as the best antidote 
against individual severity ;—and, knowing pro- 
pitiation to be hopeless, must only, in the old 
spirit of peripatetic pride, throw defiance in the 


teeth of the academicians. 


ADVERTISEMENT 
TO THE 


SECOND EDITION. 


THE unnecessary infliction of a new preface 
would be a bad return for the public kindness, 
which has called for a new edition of this work. 
I scarcely feel warranted in putting such a 
penalty on the indulgence of my readers; but I 
am in some measure forced to say a few words 
here, in consequence of remarks which have 
fallen from more than one of the critics, who 
have considered my book deserving of their 


notice. 


It was observed that the work bore evidence 


of a prepossession towards the reigning family 


¢ 


XXV1 ADVERTISEMENT TO 


of France; and objected, that questions re- 
lative to the revolution were treated with pre- 
judice connected with that prepossession. The 
first of these remarks is no doubt justified by 
the tone of one of the tales, which is quite in 
unison with what I felt when it was written, 
three years ago. An obscure and anonymous 
author can scarcely presume to claim a sym- 
pathy with princes. He may, however, without 
any undue pretension, express a strong interest 
in the well-being of a nation. That I felt, and 
still feel, for the country where some of my 
happiest days have been spent, and many of 
my best attachments formed. Believing that 
France, just freed from a galling despotism, 
was most likely to enjoy security and welfare 
under the constitutional rule of the Bourbons, 
and convinced that such was the opinion of the 
great mass of the nation, I was inclined to let 
my notions on the subject exhibit the prevalent 


impression. They were strengthend by several 


THE SECOND EDITION. XXVil 


circumstances of an individual rather than a 
- family nature, such as the heroic conduct of 
the Duchess of Angouléme at Bordeaux, and 


the subsequent murder of the Duke of Berry. 


With regard to the objectzon before noticed 
I have but to say, that the subjects of most of 
the tales being interwoven with events of the 
revolution, I could not avoid touching upon the 
latter; but I never ventured to argue such to- 
pics as abstract questions, being desirous to 
skim their surface in their reference to parti- 
cular results, rather than go beyond my depth, 


by treating them as general principles. 


When I wrote, no idea was entertained, by 
any one, I believe, of the war which has since 
been undertaken against Spain. Feeling on 
that point in common with every thousand less 
by an unit, perhaps, of my countrymen, I have 


omitted in the present edition the only sentence 


XX Vill ADVERTISEMENT, &Xc. 


(and one quite inadvertently allowed to stand 
in the former) which could bear a construction 
favourable to that enterprise. As I was absent 
from England at the period of printing, I had 
not an opportunity of making this, and some 


slighter alterations, in the proper time. 


I shall only add, that even this short state- 
ment should not have been obtruded on the 
public, indifferent to my name and opinions, 
had I not been anxious to clear up to my 
friends, acquainted with both, what might have 


appeared a contradiction. 


June, 1823. 


VOL. I. 


THE 


FATHER’S CURSE. 


Who shall tellen a tale after a man, 
He mote rehearse as nye as ever he can: 
Or else he mote tellen his tale untrue, 
Or feine things, or find words new. 


CHAUCER. 


THE 


FATHER’S. CURSE: 


CHAPTER I. 


TRAVELLING, as I always do, without guide 
or compass, it is no merit of mine if I some- 
times light on pleasing scenes, or mix with in- 
teresting people. I have traversed France from 
frontier to frontier ; cut across the highways, and 
struck into the open country ; passed by where 
curiosity is generally arrested ; loitered in spots 
unknown to Fame or Fashion; always yielding 
to the impulse of feeling, or the whim of fancy. 
Chance has so often led me into paths of soft 
adventure, that I ask no other pilot; but had I 
made the most nicely-balanced choice, I could 
not have better suited my taste than in that 
district called Le Perigord, and the country 
bordering upon it. 

Sauntering along the course of the river Dor- 

B2 


4 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


dogne, I had left far behind me the mountains 
of Auvergne; but I occasionally stopped to ob- 
serve the autumnal sunbeams playing round their 
distant peaks. I dwelt on the recollection of 
the wondrous scenes they exhibit, and marvelled 
that so few of our travellers had explored their 
secret charms—until [recollected that they were 
inaccessible to the approach of four-wheeled 
carriages. They gradually melted from my 
sight, and new and different beauties turned 
my thoughts aside. , 

I had seen the Dordogne in the heart of 
those rugged hiils—born in volcanic sources, 
nursed on beds of lava, and swathed with ba- 
saltic bands,—a riotous little stream, hurrying 
on its passage with the waywardness of a noisy 
child. A little further I had fancied it to glide 
along in the quiet and smiling loveliness of fe- 
male youth, through groups of gentle acclivities, 
of wild yet verdant aspect. Now, I paced its 
widely-separated banks, and marked it swelling 
into full-grown beauty, rollmg its course with 
conscious dignity along congenial plains; while 
tufts of stately trees, converted by my imagina- 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 5 


tion into enamoured lovers, wooed their liquid 
mistress with bent and graceful branches, which 
wafted salutation, or sipped her passing sweets. 
A little more, thought I, and this proud beauty 
sinks into that sea, where all rivers are finally 
lost!—and I was just getting into a train of 
deep analogies, when I was roused by the flap- 
ping wings of a covey of partridges behind me. 
I turned, and saw my dog fixed steadily at a 
point at some distance. I cocked my gun, but 
the game had escaped me. Ranger came slowly 
forward with a surly and reproving look, such 
as many a musing sportsman has observed, 
when the faithful follower, who has done so 
well his duty, would tell you that you have 
neglected yours. 

in all my rambling I am accompanicd by my 
dog; not that I despise the companionship of 
man—far from it. But where can we find a 
friend so like ourselves, with thoughts and feel- 
ings so moulded into ours, that he will think 
and talk, stand still, move forward, eat, drink, 
and sleep in perfect unison with us? This 


strict coincidence exists not between men; and 


6 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


without this, such a course as mine is better 
run alone. Pursuits there are, and pleasures, 
it is true, which two minds sufficiently congenial 

nay soothingly follow together. Hours, nay 
days entire, of social fellowship have fallen to 
my iot; and I look forward with hope to a re- 
newal of such intercourse, when ripened thought 
shall have mellowed the young fruit of earlier 
associations. But to wander for months in 
foreign scenes ; to mix with strange society, yet 
be not a stranger in it; to give the mind up to 
that reflective abandonment which likes to revel 
uncontrolled, you must have no companion but 
your dog. With him you have no ceremony 
to constrain you; and he, poor thing, is ready 
for your every mood. If youare gay, he frisks 
and capers; if sad, he trudges slowly on, and 
thinks, or seems to think, as deeply as yourself. 
When you eat, he has always a ready appetite ; 
when out of the reach of food, he murmurs not. 
Lie down to sleep, he is your guardian; rise up 
when you will, you will find him freshly at your 
call. A gunis the natural accompaniment of a 
connexion like this. It gives both employment 


THE FATHER’S CURSE, 5 
and amusement to man and beast. It is a pass- 
port for the woods and mountains; an excuse 
for idleness; a remedy against painful thought ; 
and removes the mendicant and vagabond air 
from a poor fellow who journeys with a wallet 
and a staff. In France one runs but little risk 
of stoppage or impediment. I do not speak of 
the environs of cities, of fortified towns, or mili- 
tary posts. ‘These naturally bring with thema 
train of ills—suspicion, petty tyranny, and in- 
sult. But in the happier portions of the king- 
dom, where rustic occupation takes place of 
warlike possession; where the fields are paced 
by the husbandman, not trodden down by the 
soldier, a traveller may feel himself at home. 
A straggling gendarme sometimes asks to see 
his licence, but a foreign face is nearly always 
a sufficient protection. As I, however, was 
furnished with both, I walked unmolested—a 
privileged man. Never yet did surly keeper . 
drive me from a preserve; and often has the 
honest proprietor of some rural spot invited 
me, in passing, to kill his game, and share his 


dinner too. 


8 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


But to return.—The birds were wild, and 
flew high in the direction of the rising ground 
which lay to my left. I marked them into a 
thick copse, behind which rose a young planta- 
tion. Thither I bent my steps, and Ranger 
soon led me to the prey. I got a couple of 
shots, and brought down my birds. ‘The re- 
mainder of the covey rose wildly round me, 
and scattering over the plantation, I quite lost 
their trace. 

The day was young and warm. I walked to- 
wards a projection which commanded a charm- 
ing view, and afforded at the same time shelter 
from the sun. Arrived at this little point, I 
flung myself under the shade of an acacia, my 
gun beside me, and Ranger not far off. It was 
one of the sweetest moments of my life. I 
seemed throned on the very summit of repose. 
Far beneath me spread the fertile plain of Ber- 
gerac, bounded on each side by chains of hills, 
and divided into nearly equal parts by the 
broad and placid river. The richly-wooded 
landscape was sprinkled with cottages, and 
showed here and there the tall chimneys of a 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. g 


chateau, rising among the foliage; or the smoke 
_ from some humbler habitation, hid in a mass 

of chestnut trees, whose leaves protect the pea- 
- sant from the heat, and whose fruit is his chief 
nourishment. Three or four small towns lay 
in sight ; the one from which I had last started 
just visible in the distance. 

It was vintage time, and numerous groups of 
grape-gatherers were scattered in the valleys, 
as happy as they were busy; for their joyous 
songs and bursts of merriment rose up from all 
sides on the pure and gentle breeze. A party 
of sportsmen ranged through the low grounds 
by the river, and an occasional shot came 
sharply on the highly rarefied air. The bark 
of an ill-trained dog, and the shout of the 
country people, when a partridge or a hare 
escaped their pursuers, were borne to my ear 
with a distinctness as perfect as if each group 
were close beside me. Many deeply-laden 
boats were floating down the river, gaily and 
unobstructed; the helmsmen unemployed, and 
the drowsy passengers carelessly leaning over 
the sides. One solitary barge, managed by a 


10 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


single boatman, was working its way against the 
current. Ungarnished by canvas or streamer, 
it formed a striking contrast to those which 
passed so rapidly by. The very breeze was 
hostile, and seemed to sport in the fluttering 
sails of the others, like those light and worth- 
less parasites who fan the minions of good for- 
tune. ‘They swept in quick succession round 
a point that hid them from my view. Others 
came on, and were alike soon lost to me; but 
the single boat, working against both wind and 
tide, appeared, though ever moving, ever to 
stand still. I felt, that if I chose to indulge in 
similes, I had a parallel at hand: but I felt this 
without asperity or discontent, and seemed at 
the moment to rise above ill fate. 

So still was the air, yet so clear, that the 
tolling of the several bells, as they chimed for 
prayer, or marked I know not how many hours, 
fell on my ear with sounds all equal. The hum 
of every individual insect seemed separate in 
the general buzz around me; and the very 
splash of the poor boatman’s oar, as it fell upon 
the water, reverberated through the little grove 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 11 


where I reclined. It is hard to say how long 

I should have !ain thus listless and delighted, 
had I not been more forcibly excited by the 
tone of a clarionette, touched by no mean per- 
former, in one of the most distant outbound 
boats. The strain came wild and faintly up 
the river, and thrilled through my breast. It 
was scarcely like real music, and resembled 
rather those floating harmonies which some- 
times lead the dreamer through mazes of en- 
chantment. I seemed to wake from some such 
oft-enjoyed illusion, and springing on my feet, 
I clasped my hands and raised them towards 
the skies. I felt as if the world were filled with 
joy and peace, and could not have been per- 
suaded to the contrary by a host of cynical 
philosophers. Unconscious of my movements, 
I struck into the grove; but as I trod its little 
winding path, the train of my contemplations 
was disturbed. I thought I heard low sobs 
close by me. Impossible! said I; this must be 
imagination: my mind wanders, and while re- 
velling in one extreme, its fancies warn me of 
the other. I stopped and listened, but hoped 


12 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


to hear no sound. It was however but too 
true. The tones of lamentation were repeated 
more distinctly; and, as I rustled through the 
trees towards the place from whence they came, 
I saw two female figures, clad in black, glide 
hastily from the spot where I strove to pene- 
trate. 

It seemed a vision of my overheated brain ; 
and, without knowing what I did, I burst 
through the slight enclosure of myrtle trees 
and laurel. I found myself in a place that 
might be well called sacred. It was an arbour 
planted with flowering shrubs, each one of 
which might have attracted my attention, had 
not that been wholly absorbed by its principal 
and melancholy ornament. In the middle was 
raised a little grass-covered mound, surmounted 
by a small and simple marble urn. Two wreaths 
of freshly-culled and blooming flowers were 
hung around it. It bore no symbol of sorrow, 
but this short inscription, in black letters: 

TO THE MEMORY OF OUR POOR SISTER. 

Every thing looked as if just done. The 


sods were newly placed; the marble was un- 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 13 


stained by even a drop of rain; the flowers 
had all their fragrance ; and the whole scene 
- breathed a fresh and holy solemnity. Wound 
up, as I had been, to the highest stretch of 
moral imagining, forgetting all that was of 
sorrow both of others and my own, the shock 
was extreme. I felt dumb and tearless: I 
would have given worlds to have spoken or 
wept; and I cursed the impetuosity which had 
led to an intrusion, which I thought little short 
of sacrilege. 

The only atonement left me was to fly. I 
plunged again into the little wood, and, hurry- 
ing onwards, soon found an opening. I stepped 
upon a grass field, and felt lighter at every pace 
which bore me from the scene. Moving on, 
with eyes fixed upon the earth, and in a state 
of intense feeling, I had unconsciously taken 
the very route I would have left behind. I 
was proceeding directly towards the house, on 
the grounds of which I was thus trespassing. 
On looking up and perceiving this, I would have 
turned abruptly round, but was accosted by 


two young men, both in deep mourning, who 


14 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


had advanced to meet me. They were so 
near, that there was no retreating. I antici- 
pated reproach, if not insult; and my astonish- 
ment was great indeed to meet a polite and 
even cordial salutation. “Sir, you are wel- 
come,” said one of the young men. “Come 
in, my father has been expecting your arrival.” 
“ Gentlemen,” I replied, “ you have mistaken 
for an expected visit an unpardonable intrusion. 
Your father knows me not, and I entreat you 
to attribute to ignorance the fault of which I 
have been guilty.” “If you are a stranger, 
sir,” returned the young man, “ you have the 
greater claim upon our hospitality. Come in, 
I pray you. You have arrived at a sorrowful 
season; but the day of woe has almost passed 
by, and our friends are now assembling to chase 
away its remaining hours.” ‘There was in the 
manner of these young men something so 
pleasing, of mingled sadness and courtesy, and 
the whole scene presented something so novel, 
and I thought so interesting, that I accepted 
their entreaties. They asked me to go in as if 
they wished I should do so; and that was the 


ae 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 15 


surest method of overcoming my reluctance. 
As we walked towards the house, they ex- 
"plained to me that they had mistaken me for a 
stranger, whom their father expected ; and they 
quite removed my scruples by assuring me, that 
many would be at their dinner that day, who 
were but little better known to the family than I 
was. 

I was still, however, not quite myself. The 
strong excitement of my recent sensations had 
scarcely had time to subside. I begged of my 
hospitable conductors to enter before me, and 
mention that I was a foreigner, who had wan- 
dered without plan or method from a neigh- 
bouring town; and, in the ardour of pursuit, 
had followed my game too far. With that kind 
and unembarrassed air so peculiar to the un- 
sophisticated Frenchman, they acceded at once 
to my request, and consented that I should 
gratify myself by strolling about while they 
made my apology. I thus gained time to re- 
cover my composure, and to examine the place 


where I was. 


16 THE FATHER'S CURSE, 


The house was small and low. Its white- 
washed walls, tiled roof, and green window- 
shutters, would have entitled it to the appel- 
lation of a neat cottage residence, had not its 
gigantic chimneys, disproportioned offices, and 
slovenly court-yard, presented a bar to the sim- 
plicity and comfort which that name denotes. 
Large, straggling outhouses seemed flung at 
random around. Implements of husbandry lay 
scattered on the ill-kept pavement. The an- 
noyances of the farm-yard invaded the very 
windows of the habitation. Disorder, in short, 
seemed the governing principle of the place; 
and, while I gazed on the natural capabilities 
of its situation, I was grieved that so little had 
been done for it by man. 

The ground lay beautifully sloping to the 
river at one side, and on the other hung the 
little plantation. A precipitous bank towards 
the side I stood on shelved down to a glen of 
most romantic aspect. A rivulet ran gurgling 
at the bottom, and wound its way rapidly to 
join itself to the river. The foliage showed 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 17 


the softest variation of shades; and the sun, 
now sloping in the western half of heaven, flung 
a rich radiance on its mellow tints. 

I could have almost relapsed into my former 
mood, had not the younger of my inviters ap- 
proached me with a summons to the house. I 
flung aside at once my mantle of reflection; 
and, with a resolution to observe first and take 
time for thinking afterwards, I was ushered into 
the drawing-room. A number of persons, in- 
deed a large company, was assembled. All 
were in black habits, except those who, I should 
have thought, required them most; for I im- 
mediately recognized the master and mistress 
of the mansion by their melancholy looks and 
the places they occupied among the surround- 
ing visitors, although neither of them wore 
mourning. My conductors presented me to 
their father, who approached me, and with a 
manner polished enough to mark the man of 
good breeding, but more sincere than courtier- 
like, he told me that I was welcome. He in- 
troduced me to his lady, who looked indeed 
woe-stricken, and spoke not a word. ‘The 

VOL. I. C 


18 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


guests, also, had sorrow on their faces, but mo- 
dified into different shapes and degrees of ex- 
pression. I looked around me to discover the 
figures which had glided from me in the planta- 
tion, but in vain. After a few general ob- 
servations I fell behind a group who were con- 
versing in under tones, and silently surveyed 
the scene into which I had so strangely dropped. 
The furniture of the apartment particularly at- 
tracted my notice: it was all that Parisian inge- 
nuity could execute or good taste select. The 
window-curtains, of blue silk and embroidered 
muslin, tastefully festooned together, the richly- 
wrought carpet, profusion of looking-glass, and 
splendidchimney-ornaments, assorted ill with the 
rustic air of the outside, and would have caused 
me more surprise, if they had not been in per- 
fect keeping with that inconsistency, which is 
the most striking characteristic of every thing 
French. But in this chamber all seemed 
touched by a choice and delicate hand: ele- 
gance reigned throughout. No gaudy gilding 
destroyed the eftect of the polished mahogany 
tables, or the piano-forte, which was placed at 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 19 


the upper end of the room. The harp was 
_ simple and classic in its form. The pictures 
which hung upon the walls were chaste and ex- 
quisite copies from Italian and Spanish masters. 
The portraits of the family, well executed and 
neatly framed, had also their places. ‘The 
likenesses of some I could vouch to be most 
faithful. Those of the father and mother were 
particularly striking. They seemed to have 
been painted in the early days of wedded en- 
joyment, for the costume might have been that 
of thirty years before; and there was a smiling 
play of expression on the lip of each, which 
contrasted strongly with their present appear- 
ance. 

The young men whom [ had seen were 
schoolboys on the canvas, with curly heads and 
joyous faces, standing at full length, a large 
dog between them, and altogether a fine and 
social group. There was, besides, a full-grown 
youth in hussar uniform, with ardour in his 
glance and vigour in his manly form. Three 
lovely female half-leneth figures completed all of 


the set of portraits that was to be seen; but one, 
c2 


20 - THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


more than all the others, excited my attention, 
from its being covered with a veil of black gauze. 
I would have willingly penetrated its conceal- 
ment, for I was interested in every thing con-, 
nected with this mysterious spot. I thought I 
could distinguish beneath its sombre covering 
the flowing drapery of a female form. I re- 
collected the funeral urn, and my anxiety was 
almost agitation. 

Some of the guests accosted me with the 
civility usual in this country of politeness. One 
gentleman, more than any other, pleased me 
by his address; and the familiar footing which 
he seemed to enjoy with the family made me 
suppose him a relative, and, at all events, pro- 
mised me a better chance of information than 
the affectionate, yet distant, respect which was. 
visible in the manners of the rest. I attached 
myself particularly to him; and, in a short time, 
the announcement of dinner gave me an oppor-. 
tunity for the indulgence which I so much de- 
sired. We were ushered into the dining-room, 
where a table was prepared for upwards of 
twenty persons. I took care to remove far from. 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 91 


the lady of the house, beside whom the polite- 
ness of the family would have placed me. I 
saw the two young women silently enter and 
take their seats, while, shrinking from them, I 
secured a chair beside the gentleman whom I 
before mentioned. 

We soon got into conversation; and, in an- 
swer to one of my remarks, thrown out pur- 
posely to lead him on, he informed me that the 
breakfast-table that morning had been as amply 
supplied, and as fully attended, as that at which 
we were seated. I ventured to inquire the 
cause of this double display of hospitality, so 
unusual in one day. My companion informed 
me, in a whisper, that this was the custom on 
occasion of the first visits of condolence after 
the death of a relative. Some few days fol- 
lowing the funeral were, he told me, allowed 
to elapse, that the sufferers might in solitude 
give indulgence to their grief. Then it became 
the duty of the neighbourhood, even that part 
whose acquaintance was the slightest, to crowd 
at once, as if the whole fortitude of the mourners 


was to be forced into exertion on this single 


22 THE FATHER S CURSE. 


occasion. It was, he said, the usage all through 
France that mourning visits should be paid in 
mourning dress; but, in answer to my ob- 
servation on that of our host and his lady, he 
added, that parents were not obliged by custom 
to conform to the colour which marked the 
sorrow of the other connexions of the deceased. 
Exceptions were nevertheless seen where pa- 
rents availed themselves of the privilege to bear 
the symbol of sorrow for their offspring’s death ; 
but this case offered no example of departure 
from the general rule. 

“It was a daughter that has been lost?” 
asked I, my eyes involuntarily fixed on the 
crape-covered portrait. Before he could reply 
I saw that my gaze had caught the cbservation 
of a part of the family—it might have been 
that they heard the question. The lips of the 
young women trembled, and their eyes swam 
full of tears: the father blushed a deep scarlet, 
and raised his glass to his head, which bent as 
if in shame. I could have both wept and 
blushed—the first for their sorrow, and the last 
for my own want of delicate reserve. 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 25 


Determined to restrain myself, I turned the 
conversation, and joined in that which became 
general. Every one of the guests seemed 
anxious to draw the attention of the mourning 
family from the contemplation of their grief; 
and the exertions of the latter were forced to 
the utmost to keep up the appearance of com- 
posure. But something seemed to lie upon 
their hearts stil] heavier than common woe: a 
deep sense of suffering, mixed with an uneasy 
support of it, was to be read on every face of 
the family. If the father for a moment relaxed 
in his endeavours to uphold the conversation, 
he started at times, as if some inward reproach 
painfully forced him upon words for relief. If 
the young men now and then lapsed into 
thought, their fine countenances seemed to 
glow with the fushings of imagined disgrace. 
The daughters scarcely ventured to speak, as 
if afraid of the emotion that rose higher than 
their words, and was continually struggling for 
utterance. The mother looked broken-hearted. 
But, among them all, there was none of the dig- 


nity of virtuous sorrow; none of the resignation 


24: THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


with which the woe-stricken mind looks back 
upon the purity of a lamented ebject; none of 
that calm condolence with which we love to 
dwell, in the days of mourning, on the worth 
and loveliness of a departed friend; nor that 
melancholy garrulity which seems to waste 
away our grief in unavailing words. No, there 
was none of this—no remembrarice upon which 
the weary heart seemed able to rest. All ap- 
peared a hopeless anguish, that wept in the 
bitterness of despondency. 

The guests seemed actuated by a sympathy 
of agitated and obstructed suffering: their 
averted looks seemed to say, “ We cannot 
offer consolation—for we dare not tell you that 
she lives in our esteem.” Such was the con- 
struction that I put upon their manner; and I 
felt that the contagion of this compressed and 
overpowering afiliction had seized upon me 
too. The efforts to keep up the conversation 
gradually died away. Subject after subject 
was attempted for its revival, but each one 
sunk in abortive efforts. The dishes went away 
almost untasted—the bottles stood unemptied. 


THE FATHER'S CURSE. Q5 


The very ceremony of assumed appetite was 
abandoned ; and the whole party, as if with one 
accord, rose at length in silence, and prepared 
to depart. 

My neighbour at table had, in the hurried 
snatches of conversation which we mutually 
forced ourselves to support, informed me that 
he was the physician of the family, and an in- 
habitant of the town where I made my tempo- 
rary sojourn. He proposed our walking there 
together. I was glad to embrace his offer; 
and, seeing that he wished to take an unob- 
structed adieu of his friends, I promised to 
loiter without until he joined me. The visitors 
began to take their leave. They cordially 
pressed the hands of each one of the deeply 
afflicted family. Looks of sorrowful energy 
were exchanged, but no sounds were uttered. 
I silently stole from the scene; for I felt that 
my presence, though at first perhaps considered 
a relief, had gradually become a restraint upon 
the suffering and sympathising circle. 

When I got out of the house it was yet day, 
Dinner had been served about five o’clock, and 


26 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


nearly two dreary hours had elapsed since then. 
The sun was gone down, and the crescent 
moon hung in the heavens, transparent and 
shadowy, like a spirit of the skies. <A rich 
glow suffused the west. The sun, in withdraw- 
ing his beams from the world, appeared to have 
shed a parting blessing on it, for every thing 
breathed a luscious and mellow complacency- 
The busy sounds of the morning were hushed : 
the call of the scattered coveys, or the chirp- 
ing of the quails, was the only interruption to 
the stillness of the hour. My mind, however, 
was not at first in harmony with this repose of 
nature: the scene I had just left unfitted me 
for its enjoyment; and I thought that thunder 
and storm would have better suited my soul’s 
temper: but in a little while the witchery of 
nature lulled te rest the gloomy spirits by which 
I was haunted. In proportion as my breast 
received the impressions of external loveliness, 
it seemed to swell with the desire of giving 
them vent. Heaven knows it was not a moment 
favourable to composition; and that, I trust, 


will be borne in mind by the reader of the 


nv 
THE FATHER’S CURSE. Q% 


following verses, scribbled with my pencil on 


the spot: 
I. 


How sweet.to range a lonely wood 
When the mind is tuned to solitude, 
And summer’s garish tints are fled, 
And the autumn leaves are falling— 
Where a rough cascade o’er its rocky bed 
With an angry sound is brawling :— 


II. 


Or on some mountain’s heath-clad side, 
As the sun yields up his blush of pride, 
And roseate beams o’er the landscape roll 
At the hour when day is closing ; 
And the eye and the soul o’er the beauteous whole 
Are in mutual calm reposing— 


Ill. 


When through the grove a plaintive breeze 
Bears a pure perfume from the trees, 
And we suck the wild thyme’s luscious breath, 
And sigh for the flow’rets blighted 
Of some blooming wreath, where the hand of death 
Spared nought which our hearts delighted. 


IV. 


Tis ever thus :—with ruthless grasp 
He comes to loosen the firm clasp 


98 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


Which folds those objects loved the best ; 
And then o’er each mourner hovers, 

Whose parch’d lips press’d, make the grave’s cold breast 
Less chill than the form it covers. 


I was just in the act of closing my tablets, 
when my new-formed acquaintance joined me, 
and we immediately set off arm in arm, Ranger 
following at a respectful distance. I quickly 
learned from my companion, that he was not only 
the physician, but also:the confidential friend of 
the family we were leaving behind ; but he said 
that he considered it no breach of his double 
trust to give me some information respecting per- 
sons whose situation’must have deeply excited 
my curiosity. On the contrary, he thought it 
more in their interest that he should make me 
acquainted with circumstances which were known 
to all the country, than leave me to hear them 
from mingled ignorance and exaggeration, or the 
gossip of a public table. 

I requested him to give me the detail of all 
that was not secret in the sorrow of his friends ; 
and he immediately proceeded to do so, an- 


swering my inquiries with minuteness, and 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 99 


making me fully acquainted with their sad so- 
_ licitudes. It was three leagues to the town to 
which we were bound. We walked slowly in 
the mellow moonlight; yet we had to loiter in 
the suburb, to allow my narrator to finish his 
story. When he had ended, and that nothing 
more was to be elicited from him, we parted. 
The moon was high in heaven when I heard 
the hollow sounds of his footsteps dying away 
in the distance, as he reached his residence. 
The beams of morning were crimsoning the 
east before I flung myself on the bed in my 
little inn, after a night of sensation more than 
commonly painful. 

- Many months have gone by since I listened 
to that sad recital, and time and absence have 
worn down much of the first impression it made 
upon me; but although the vividness of the 
detail is past, and the scene which I have at- 
- tempted to describe has lost the freshness of its 
real existence, still, if I can but throw a faint. 
portion of reality into the outline which I now. 
sit down to draw, I think enough will be done: 
to impart some interest to it. 


50 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


CHAPTER II. 


Tue father of this unhappy family was a 
man of small but independent fortune. He 
farmed his own estate, which produced, pro- 
bably, six hundred pounds a year, and on this 
income lived respectably and well; educating 
his children, entertaining his neighbours, and 
giving freely to the poor. 

This is an enviable state of living to the man 
who can consent to be happy in retirement, and 
sighs not for the distinctions and disappoint- 
ments of the world. Such a man was Mr. Le 
Vasseur; but even his choice was subject to its 
miseries. The Revolution had strongly excited 
the hopes of this gentleman, for he had none of 
the abuses of hereditary rank to uphold. He 
was of a respectable family, but not of distin- 
guished birth; and he saw, like many another 
ardent spirit, the promise of terrestrial bliss in 
the overthrow of those distinctions which held 
a barrier to the advance of lowly worth. He 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 31 


had gone to Paris immediately after having 
married an amiable and accomplished woman, 
’ and he there expected the realisation of his 
visions of universal good. A little while dis- 
solved this delusive hope. The excesses of 
liberty appeared to him to offer no security even 
to a freeman; and, still a firm republican in 
heart, he withdrew from the agitated scene. 
He retired to his little paternal inheritance ; 
looked on at the distant horrors of the times, 
and strove to keep the torrent beyond the pale 
of his own social circle. He had considerable 
influence in the neighbourhood, from the re- 
spectability and steadiness of his conduct. A 
rigid virtue appeared to guide him in every 
thing; and if he sometimes erred, it was in 
judgment, not in heart. In the days of fury, 
he formed a happy contrast to the monsters 
who were abroad. He was a warm friend of 
liberty, but as firm as he was warm. He was 
one of the many who could see the road be- 
tween despotism and anarchy; but he was also 
one of the very few who had the strength and 
virtue to follow it. He loved freedom, and had 


$2 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


drunk deeply in its delicious fountains, but 
not to intoxication; and he shrunk back from 
the debauchery of less-guarded votaries. Such 
was the public man. 

In private life he was consistent. He was an 
excellent husband and master; and as years 
grew upon him, he became a wisely-affectionate 
father. But Le Vasseur was unfortunately 
tinctured with the infidelity of the times. He 
had followed in his early years the course of 
sophistry lectured on by some eminent pro- 
fessors, and was a rash disciple of a very un- 
worthy philosophy. He thought man capable 
of perfection; and in following this phantom, 
he was forced to sacrifice many of the best, 
though perhaps the least imposing of human 
feelings. | 

He wished to form his character on the 
model of ancient example; but, like all who 
aim at forcing feeling from its natural channels, 
he was the frequent prey of very violent suf- 
fering. He would be stoical, but nature had 
made him tender. In his rigid view of right, 


he discarded mercy. Rejecting the pleadings 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 33 


of the heart, he placed his whole reliance upon 
reason; but as reason ripened, he became sen- 
- sible of its unsoundness. When he saw this 
god of men’s idolatry raised to what they were 
pleased to call its place, he saw that it had 
neither the power nor the privileges of divinity : 
that instead of men obeying its judgments, they 
were by no means unanimous in their inter- 
pretation of its laws: that while every mouth 
was an oracle, the attributes of the deity could 
never be explained :—and while he gazed upon 
the naked strumpet paraded through the streets, 
in triumphant personification of the immortal 
mind, he started back, and asked himself if it 
was a dream. 

This cured him of his first disorder.. He 
fled in disgust, and turned his thoughts towards 
the formation of a little mental digest, which 
was to be the essence of all that was wise and 
good. Plato, Aristotle, and many other spe- 
culators, lent their aid to his researches; but 
one lawgiver was rejected by involuntary im- 
pulse. He had been too long taught to discard 

VOL. I. D 


eo 


o4 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


Christianity, to be capable, if he wished, of 
looking there for precept. Through the ab- 
surdities with which it has been obscured by 
mortal frailty, he could not distinguish the still 
upright splendour of the principle itself; yet he 
suffered his children to grow up in its profes- 
sion, because it was the re-established form. 
But the young people saw in his negative ap- 
proval of its doctrines all the coldness of re- 
straint; and Le Vasseur, perceiving that his 
example was robbing them of their best sup- 
port against impetuous desires, found himself 
forced to a more rigid censorship; and he was 
imperceptibly degenerating into the tyrant over. 
his free-born children. They felt this, and, 
though they feared him, they did not love him; 
because indulgence proceeding from well-re- 
gulated affection is the only foundation on 
which the regard of children can be built. 

The young Le Vasseurs were highly fa- 
voured by nature. Each particular temper 
showed in varying shades much that is bright 
and beautiful in the human disposition; and 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 35 


had these materials been kepttogether by strong 
principle, perfection would be less a mockery 
than it is. But such moral cement was want- 
ing. ‘The boys would all have rushed up to 
the cannon’s mouth. Intrepidity ran current 
in their veins; yet the life-blood was not warmer 
than their tenderness of heart. They felt life 
to be possessed for the benefit of their country. 
They smiled in involuntary good-breeding, and 
bowed low if a stranger gave them salutation, 
or if an inferior came across their path; but if 
a pampered son of pride held up his counte- 
nance, and claimed respect, they felt a self-knit 
frown upon their brows, and an involuntary curl 
upon their lips. 

Such was the fair side of the characters of 
these young men, and such I believe to be the 
better character of the country. But they had 
no integrity of soulon which they could rest in 
misfortune, and from which they might smile at 
fate. They had no settled principle of right, 
nor any well-organised notions of wrong. When 
they went astray, it seemed as if by rule. If 

D2 


36 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


they were correct, it was like chance. Fine 
feelings and good actions seemed to spring up 
spontaneously, and in their own despite; while 
looseness of life seemed worked into a settled 
code of conduct. 

This wondrous inconsistency in individuals 
is to be met with every where; but it is in 
France alone that it appears as the national 
character. Other countries are strikingly moral, 
or the contrary; and a whole people is distin- 
guished, as well as individuals, by the epithets 
good or bad: but those who have had any in- 
tercourse with the French mind, know how 
difficult it is to say which character predo- 
minates. 

The convulsions of the Revolution threw 
every thing back into its original chaos. Mind 
was confounded with matter; and social insti- - 
tutions mingled in a common ruin with the 
elementary principles on which order had been 
raised. Conjugal faith became a mockery, and 
virgin coyness a reproach. Woman was sunk 
as low as she had been in the worst state of 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 37 


Grecian society, under the sway of the Sophists ; 
while the flagitious doctrines of that sect came 
now into practical reaction. 

The influence of the government was a power- 
ful engine in sapping the foundations of female 
chastity. The making marriage merely a civil 
obligation was striking a death-blow to its so- 
lemnity ; and the protection afforded to public 
debauchery made private misconduct a matter 
of course. The looseness of their literature ; 
the passion for classical illustration; the taste 
for statuary—in all its dignified indecency— 
these, and a thousand other combining causes, 
broke through the barriers of natural modesty ; 
and became the more irresistible, because 
breathing the intoxicating odours of elegance, 
and covered by the glittering, yet flimsy veil of 
sentiment. 

I am not endeavouring to palliate the general 
impurity, but I wish to establish some excuse 
for particular instances of error: not offering 
incense at the shrine of guilt, but striving to 
excite compassion for some of the victims of its 


worship. If I had not been able to do this, I 


38 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


should not have taken in hand the story of Le 
Vasseur. It was not, however, his fault, if the 
contagion reached his doors. Hestruggled hard, 
but it was against the stream; and he had no 
strength but what was barely enough to keep 
himself from sinking. 

In the whole neighbourhood there were no 
young women so much admired as were his 
daughters, nor any who merited more to be 
so. They were beautiful, accomplished, and 
pleasing. They danced and sung better than 
most of their companions; and had other ad- 
vantages, which the majority could not procure. 
Their father’s wealth, for so his income was 
considered in their neighbourhood, enabled him 
to procure for his children masters in music 
and drawing; and they profited as much as 
possible by this indulgence. He had himself 
much taste for the arts. His walls were 
covered with good pictures and engravings; 
and the chambers and gardens were furnished 
with casts from the best statues of antiquity. 
The subjects of all these ornaments were clas- 


sical; and Le Vasseur loved to instil into his 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 39 


children notions of republican virtue through the 
medium of objects which might at once direct 
and cultivate their taste. The consequence was 
in some measure what he wished. ‘They grew 
up in the warmth of republican principle; but 
they did not feel inclined to become themselves 
the parallels of all its effects. ‘The sons almost 
deified the second Brutus, but they thought of 
the first with horror. The daughters sympa- 
thised with the heroic sternness of the Spartan 
mother, but they turned from Virginius as from 
a monster. 

The hospitality of the house brought con- 
tinual visitors, and, amongst others, the officers 
of the cavalry regiments stationed in the neigh- 
bouring town. These officers were the greatest 
attraction which the neighbourhood aftorded 
for the young of both sexes. They danced 
and flirted in a style quite different, and rode 
and shot in a manner very much superior to 
the rustic youth around. They were, of course, 
every where well received, and at some houses 
constant guests. During the late war in Spain, 


the regiments were continually changed; and 


40 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


this being one of the principal cavalry stations 
on the high road from Paris to Bayonne, troops 
of that description were in frequent movement 
from all sides of this part of France. 

The two elder daughters of Le Vasseur had 
now grown up to be marriageable, and two 
other sisters were fast approaching to woman- 
hood. But as they had all hitherto escaped 
any serious attachment, their father began to 
hope that they would finally fix their affections 
on some of the neighbouring youth; who, 
though less captivating, had many more solid 
claims to their regard. But in this respect he 
was too sanguine; for the young people, though — 
free from any dangerous impression, had suf- 
ficiently relished the refinement of their military 
acquaintances to have become extremely fas- 
tidious with respect to the others. The casual 
appearance of the few officers who now had 
leisure to cultivate the knowledge of the neigh- 
bourhood was rather discouraged by their still 
hospitable but circumspect. entertainer, who 
brought as muchas possible his country friends 


around him. ‘This change was little approved 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 41 


of by the younger members of the family; and 
the mother, who lived in the happiness of her 
children, ventured occasionally to remonstrate 
with her more prudent husband, but in vain. 

The eldest son was now seventeen; and it 
was determined, in compliance with his own 
wish, that he should get an appointment in one 
of the regiments ordered for Spain, and which 
contained some of his favourite friends. ‘The 
appointment was procured; and the young 
hero, after taking an affectionate leave of his 
family, set off for the frontiers. This was a 
day of great sadness to those who were left 
behind. The mother and sisters wept inces- 
santly, and the two younger boys felt wretched 
at the better fortune of him who, by two or 
three years’ seniority, had flung them so much 
into insignificance. ‘They sighed for manhood, 
and the fine uniform of their brother, and built 
castles together for treasuring up the glory 
which was to come. 

This event made some relaxation necessary 
to all; for even the father felt his stoical firm- 


ness somewhat shaken by the separation from 


42 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


his child. ‘The young Le Vasseur was almost 
choked with tears; but, as he pressed his fa- 
ther’s hand to his lips, he sobbed out assurances 
that he should not be anatom the worse soldier 
for that weakness—and he was not. On the con- 
trary, he was the better soldier for it, because it 
softened down the courage of the animal into 
the as brave but more considerate resolution of 
the man. He distinguished himself in many a 
bloody encounter by his boldness, and as often 
by his humanity. In the scenes of horror, 
which the Spanish war brought every day be- 
fore his eyes, he only saw fresh reasons for the 
cultivation of merciful feelings, and left it to 
others to draw from them arguments for cruelty. 
But I am anticipating. 


Sia) 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 4; 


CHAPTER III. 


AmoncG the guests which the renewed con- 
viviality of Le Vasseur’s mansion brought to- 
gether, was a young man named St. Croix, who 
having, like most others of his countrymen, em- 
braced a military life, had just returned from 
Spain in consequence of a severe wound, and 
was then residing with his father, who was a 
neighbouring proprietor of equal property and 
nearly similar principles with Le Vasseur him- 
self. This young man was at all times en- 
gaging and interesting, but particularly so at 
this period, from his having so recently quitted 
a country to which the attention of his friends 
was so particularly directed. The intimacy of 
his boyish days, before he had entered upon 
his worldly career, was now renewed, and to 
Le Vasseur’s family party he became, in fact, 
an almost necessary appendage. He spent days 
together at the house. He was fond of shoot- 


ing, and his mornings were chiefly occupied 


44, THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


with the boys. He understood the general 
principles of agriculture, and passed an occa- 
sional hour with the father in viewing the ma- 
nagement of his farm. He loved music, and 
was a proficient on more than one instrument. 
That ensured him the favour of the daughters ; 
and he answered, without tiring, the questions 
relating to Spanish affairs which the mother 
unsparingly put to him. ‘Ineed not say that 
he was a favourite with her. In short, in po- 
litics, acquirements, and manners, he was every 
thing that suited the particular tastes and 
united ideas of the whole circle. He was, 
notwithstanding all these external advantages, 
a libertine at heart. His ambition was un- 
bounded. He longed for fame with the eager- 
ness, and reckoned on it with the ardour, of 
youth. His self-confidence was unlimited, and 
he had no doubt of his powers to command 
good fortune. He wished for wealth as the 
means of acquiring distinction, and despised 
his expected patrimony, as well as the retire- 
ment in which it was situated. He had been 
for some time attached to the suite of King 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 45 


Joseph at Madrid; had before then belonged 
to the body-guard of the emperor, and in that 
distinguished situation had been long stationed 
at Paris. He had imbibed all the vices, while 
perfecting himself in the refinements, of courts 
and capitals, and was, even there, a finished and 
notorious profligate. 

In the circle of his native spot there was 
nothing of sufficient pomp to suit his in- 
clinations; nothing highly-seasoned enough to 
excite his satiated taste; but still sufficient to 
satisfy his grosser appetite. In Le Vasseur’s 
family he saw a native elegance, of a kind 
totally different from the artful embellishments 
of fashionable life, but something that resembled 
it more than he saw elsewhere; and he gazed 
on beauty of a description as exquisite as the 
most vitiated voluptuary could desire. He re- 
marked with astonishment the grace with which 
these country girls danced; the feeling with 
which they played and sung; the ease and 
even eloquence with which they spoke, and 
their freedom from vulgarisms and provincial 


accent. This was all certainly astonishing, 


46 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


inasmuch as it is uncommon; but who has not, 
some time or other, met with such unaccountable 
and striking instances of inherent good taste and 
self-formed good breeding? 

The eldest of the daughters, whose name. 
was Eugenie, attracted particularly St. Croix’s 
regards, and seemed to value them the high- 
est. She had all that brilliancy of beauty and 
showiness of person which the depravity of 
fashion prefers to more retirmg charms. She 
was by far the best musician. She was of a 
gayer turn than Agnes; and the attractions of 
the youngest two were not yet sufficiently de- 
veloped to enter into the competition. 

The flow of Eugenie’s spirits had no bounds ; 
and her tongue kept pace with the rapidity 
of her thoughts. She talked incessantly, and 
generally well; but she frequently got beyond 
her depth, and boldly entered into discussions 
on the most profound subjects with a levity 
which showed her disrespect as well as inca- 
pacity. Agnes thought on these matters pretty 
nearly as did her sister, but she talked less 
about them. She never scoffed at religion, and 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. Al 


felt there was a something holy in even its su- 
perstitions, and was sometimes almost disposed 
to regret that she could not enter into its en- 
thusiasm. The mother delighted in Kugenie’s 
talents and their display; but they caused the 
father many an anxious hour. He would have 
given worlds to have seen her well married ; 
and he thought that such a man as St. Croix 
was exactly suited for her husband. With this 
view he encouraged the intimacy that was 
going on; and he felt that for Agnes he had 
no need of uneasiness. ‘There was something 
in the reflective complacency of even her hap- 
piest moments which gave him surety for her. 
She had a heart fully as susceptible as her 
sister’s, but more regulated; and although her 
feelings seemed to spring from the same source, 
they ran in quite a different channel. I cannot 
pursue the parallel further. The sequel of what 
I have to relate will illustrate their characters 
better than description. 

For some months matters went on most 
smoothly with the family ; continual parties of 
pleasure, in the rural scenes around, diversified 


48 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


their domestic enjoyments. Frequent letters 
from the army gave assurance of the safety and 
good conduct of the young soldier. His place 
at home had been almost completely supplied 
by St. Croix. The father and mother were de- 
lighted by the prospect of having him really 
for their son, and the younger girls looked on 
him quite as a brother. The boys, too, con- 
sidered him completely as such; and as for 
Eugenie, she gave herself up entirely to love. : 
All that warmth of impassioned feeling which 
had so long been prisoned in her breast now 
rushed from its concealment with irresistible 
force. Every faculty of her mind seemed im- 
bued with the spirit of enamoured inspiration ; 
and she looked, and spoke, and sung more like 
some visionary being of the fancy than any 
thing real with which mortal sympathies have 
connexion. 

St. Croix seemed equally ardent and im- 
passioned, but his demeanour wanted that stamp 
of self-delight with which his lovely mistress 
seemed imprinted: towards her he was all that 
affection could create, but with himself he seemed 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 49 


but ill at rest. His appearance wore a look of 
mingled agitation and enchantment, and at the 
times when he was the happiest he seemed the 
most unhappy. In fact, he was undergoing the 
severest struggle that the mind of a profligate, 
yet amorous, man could suffer: he was a con- 
stant prey to the contest of ambition with desire. 
_ He really loved Eugenie with all the force of 
the most violent passion, but he still panted 
after fame with the breathless ardour of de- 
votion. To marry Eugenie would have for 
ever thrown him back from the object of his 
primary pursuit; to lose her would have ren- 
dered him incapable of its enjoyment. The 
distinction which he looked to was only to be 
procured by means of a high alliance—a union 
with Eugenie would sink him at once into in- 
significance. He turned in every way his pro- 
spects and position: viewed, in all their bear- 
ings, the arguments for and against; but was 
long ere he forced himself to decide on the 
enjoyment of one ruling passion without the 
sacrifice of the other. 

He was not without a portion of those better 

VOL. I. FE 


50 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


feelings which I am fond of believing to belong 
more or less to all his countrymen; those ge- 
nuine sentiments of natural good, which, even 
when they fall before the power of vice, cast 
a redeeming lustre on their possessors, and too 
often brighten the sombre shades of guilt. He 
hesitated long before he resolved on the se- 
duction of Eugenie. I can scarcely, however, 
use that word: he had but little difficulty on 
her part to overcome. She was prepared for 
her fall by a long course of indifference to its 
criminality; and, if she had any qualms, they 
were more on the score of expediency than 
shame. 

I do not mean to stain my pages by detailing 
the progress of this guilty passion, nor do I 
write to gratify licentious taste; neither have I 
to dwell, with the warmth of sensibility, on the 
aberrations of a delicate mind from the path of 
right. The mind of Eugenie knew nothing of 
true virtue; and I shall not attempt to excite a 
spurious compassion for an object undeserving 
of pity. She flung herself without hesitation 
into the open arms of her paramour, and in 


THE FATHER’S CURSE, 51 


his ardour had all that she required of con- 
solation. He never talked of marriage, and she 
cared little on that point. She had no dread 
of the pangs which she was preparing for her 
mother, although loving her tenderly; nor of 
the shame she was bringing on her brothers; 
nor the danger into which she was thus guiding 
her sisters. She was quite convinced of her 
power to remove from all of them every feeling 
of temporary resentment; and she relied so 
strongly on the fidelity of St. Croix, that she 
was even ready to sacrifice them all, should 
they oppose themselves to a connexion which 
she felt was to endure for ever. But she some- 
times shuddered at the anticipation of her 
father’s severity. _ From this fear she, however, 
strove to shelter herself by the hope of being 
able to conceal her secret; and, if even dis- 
covered, she had volumes of reproach to heap 
upon him in return for the indulgence which led 
to her crime. 

We may believe that in this state of feeling 
she had hours of much uneasiness. She had 
so, but they were fleeting. Her sorrow was not 

E2 
LIBRARY 
UNIVERS|Ty OF ILLINOIS 


. §2 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


founded on remorse; and it is that alone which 
makes sorrow hopeless. She had no self-re- 
proaches—for to herself she could justify what 
she had done by the arguments of many of her 
favourite authors, and the example of some of 
her friends. 

But Le Vasseur could not coincide with 
those who maintained that females, whose ex- 
ample has once tended to loosen the bonds of 
society, should be allowed an opportunity of 
uniting them again, beyond the sphere of their 
own families, and the limited circle of their par- 
ticular friends. In consistency with his op- 
position to the principle, he was obliged to dis- 
countenance its followers; and if he failed in 
his efforts to instil strict notions of right into 
the minds of his children, he at least kept from 
them the practical instances of impurity. No 
female of suspected virtue was admitted to his 
house; and if his daughters occasionally saw 
some of their tainted companions, it was by 
stealth. 

While this narrowed the round of their social 
intercourse, it did not better themselves. The 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 53 


system of outer toleration was too general to 
be affected by the rigid exclusion from one 
house, although one of most influence in the 
country ; and the family of Le Vasseur, as well 
as his neighbours, unanimously pronounced him 
too strict. I have said little of the character of 
his wife, because little was to be said on the 
subject. She was a woman of great amiability, 
of placid temper, and engaging manners; who 
on all occasions submitted to others; who 
thought opposition produced only unhappiness ; 
who indulged the foibles of her offspring, from 
fear of spoiling their tempers, and who con- 
cealed their faults from their father, in the 
dread of fretting him. Living, however, but 
for the well-being of her children and the will 
of her husband, she thought the first should 
be as dependent on the latter as she was her- 
self; and if she wept, in the sequel, over her 
daughter’s misfortune, it was more because it 
brought down her husband’s anger than from 
any idea of its innate impropriety, or any notion 
that her own weakness could be imagined to 
have caused the calamity. 


54 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


Such was the easy character of Madame Le 
Vasseur, and such were the two extremes 
through which her children had to steer: pa- 
ternal austerity and motherly indulgence, to- 
tally incapable of association ; and the one ever 
counteracting the good, and adding to the evil 
effects of the other. I feel that I am invo- 
luntarily urging arguments of extenuation for 
the immediate object of my censure. It is pos- 
sible that I am; but as more morals than one 
are mixed together in my tale, I must only hope 
that there are the more chances for its example 
being effective. 

Time, which in all cases flies, alas! too ra- 
pidly, is apparently accelerated in speed by every 
species of enjoyment, but by none so much as 
by that which is criminal. 

When Eugenie looked back on four months 
from the commencement of her intercourse, she 
was amazed. It seemed incredible. The time 
was gone, and like a blank. No record was 
written of thoughts, feelings, or actions. All 
had been a wild and uncontrollable flow of 


spirit, which left no vestige of its course. She 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 55 


remembered that she had been happy; and a 
wild and negligent air was visible in all she said 
or did. 

St. Croix was ever with her, but did not 
partake of this abandonment. He was almost 
as impassioned as she was, but he was not so 
thorough a voluptuary. She thought but of 
him—he but of himself. Her infatuation must 
have led to inevitable discovery, had not the 
lover possessed a more limited share of suscepti- 
bility. His whole attention was turned to pre- 
vent the betrayal of their secret by the very 
object to whom discovery would have been most 
fatal. 

Le Vasseur observed Eugenie’s demeanour, 
and saw it with pleasure. He had made virtue 
too much his study to have had leisure for the 
contemplation of vice ; and if he had been called 
upon to draw an inference from his daughter’s 
manners, he would have stated it to be the ob- 
viousness of her purity. 

He often wondered at the agitated expression 
of St. Croix’s countenance; but he saw him 


deeply enamoured of Eugenie, and believed that 


56 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


no obstacle could interpose a barrier against 
their union. He knew the sentiments of St. 
Croix’s father to be highly favourable to it, and 
he felt that he himself was not a man to be 
trifled with; and that no alternative remained 
for him who had gone so far. 

Madame Le Vasseur was a passive spectator 
of the progress of things. She saw that her 
husband was approving, and her daughter 
happy. The brothers regretted the attach- 
ment, which so engrossed St. Croix as to take 
him entirely away from a participation in their 
sports; and the younger girls looked on in 
silence, and thought the lovers very extra- 
vagant. But Agnes had a deeper interest in 
the affair—for she was throughout her sister’s 
confidant. How the mind silently sickens at 
this fact, and how naturally it turns from the 
instance of particular ill to the execration of 
the system in which it had its source! What a 
mass of public turpitude must have vitiated the 
natural delicacy of the female breast before 
such a depository as a sister’s bosom could be 
the chosen hiding-place of such a secret ! What 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 57 


fumes of delusion, impiety, and vice must have 
risen from the authorized writings of the land 
before a bosom could be found to accept the 
trust! ) 

Agnes was, however, her sister’s confidant; 
and the trust could not have been reposed in a 
safer breast. Her every effort was exerted in 
devising plans for the prevention of discovery, 
and for persuading St. Croix into the necessity 
of his marrying Eugenie. She had the pene- 
tration to discover that he had no idea of such 
a step; and she saw enough of his character to 
convince her that no common motive would be 
sufficient to urge him to it. But she perceived 
through his libertinism a glimmering light of 
humanity and honour, and a ruling spirit of 
chivalrous feeling, which she hoped to bring 
into effective action against self-interest and 
ambition. She felt that with Eugenie it wag 
premature to enter on a topic of such material 
texture. She saw in her romantic flightiness 
no basis on which such argument could rest; 
and she let her run on in the ungovernableness 


of her delusion, until the moment when neces- 


58 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


sity should speak more forcibly than prudence 
or self-interest. 

That moment had now arrived—for the in- 
fatuated Eugenie began to perceive that proofs 
of her intercourse would soon be furnished to 
the eye of every observer. Her first flash of 
feeling was that of rapture at the thought of 
becoming a mother ; and her ecstasy burst upon 
St. Croix in the most impassioned strain of elo- 
quent endearment. In offering him the promise 
of this pledge, her only fear was that excess of 
delight would be too much for his self-com- 
mand. How blank and desolate was her heart 
when his involuntary exclamation of horror 
struck upon her ear! He was almost petrified, 
and lost all control. He poured out the bitter. 
ness of his angry regret in a flood of reproaches 
on his unfortunate associate; and he saw her 
sink insensible on the floor of the garden 
arbour, and rushed from it in the violence of 
his rage without a feeling for mother or for 
child. 

Agnes met him in this mood; and he ab- 
ruptly told her the secret which her sister had 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 59 


revealed. She saw in his face the workings of 
his soul; but she did not for an instant lose her 
_ presence of mind, nor evince any appearance 
of surprise. In fact, she had for some time 
expected this communication, but was not 
astonished that the overflow of Eugenie’s joy 
should have first betrayed itself to him who 
was so strictly joined with her in community of 
interest. 

Agnes, with all her usual composure, and 
somewhat of her father’s sternness, quietly re- 
plied to the passionate expression of St. Croix’s 
emotion, ‘‘ Then no time is to be lost: you must 
marry her without the least delay!” “ Marry 
her!” exclaimed the criminal. ‘ Madness! 
Never, never! she dreams not of such ruin.” 
“Ruin! To whom?” “To me; to me eternal 
ruin. What! dash my hopes of everlasting 
fame to earth, and prostrate the golden glories 
of ambition at the feet of her who has led me 
to this connexion!—Never!” “St. Croix,” 
replied Agnes, “I have no hopes of forcing 
you to your duty through any medium but 
your own heart: I shall not even combat the 


60 THE FATHER’S CURSE- 


momentary injustice which would fling upon my 
unhappy sister reproach or recrimination. If 
she had even been your tempter, you have 
bound your destiny to hers; and were you even 
joined in fellowship with a fiend, the bonds 
would be eternal that were so cemented.” She 
walked from him calmly towards the arbour. 
He spoke not a word, but remained fixedly 
gazing on her, with a sort of awful admiration, 
till he saw her enter the alley which led her to 
Eugenie ; and, as he lost sight of her graceful 
figure, he felt as if lightened of a spell that 
chained him to the spot. He hurried away in 
a state of distracted feeling, but the last words 
of Agnes seemed still ringing in his ears. 7 

He rushed from the garden by an unfre- 
quented path, and was seen for above an hour 
pacing the neighbouring vineyard with agitated 
steps. An hour of deep reflection was nothing 
uncommon to him; but an hour of hard-con- 
tested struggle between ambition and honour 
was novel to his breast; for in general they 
acted in concert—at least, according to his 


notions. In this instance, however, he could 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 61 


not blind himself to their opposition; for his 
feelings echoed back their violent and incessant 
clashing. In defence of the suggestions which 
bade him abandon Eugenie he had a host of 
ready arguments; the most leading of which 
was his never having promised her marriage. 
Then rushed up the doubt, if he ought not to 
have done so. ‘Her promptness to meet his 
advances was at least the result of unbounded 
confidence; and he could not conceal from 
himself, that, had she made conditions, she 
might have had any that she chose. In short, 
his perturbation was extreme, and he suffered 
keenly during this hour of mental strife; but 
at every pause of thought, and often in the 
midst of thought’s most violent paroxysms, the 
words of Agnes returned with all their air 
of supernatural and inspired delivery :—‘ Had 
you even joined in fellowship with a fiend, the 
bonds would be eternal that were so cemented.” 
Whether it was the influence of this prophetic 
ejaculation, or the workings of natural good 
feeling, even St. Croix himself could never di- 


stinguish; but a magical and momentaneous 


62 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


impulse seemed to strike him with the con- 
viction, that a man involved in such a connexion 
as his was bound to abide the fate of his asso- 
ciate, though fortune, fame, or life was the in- 
evitable sacrifice. His agitation ended in this 
fixed belief, and in a determination to act up to 
its principle: but, while we may suppose him in 
all the ferment of conflicting feelings, and before 
his determination was formed, we must turn 
awhile to her who suffered under the conse- 


quences of his intemperate treatment. 


THE FATHER'S CURSE. 63 


CHAPTER IV. 


WueEn Agnes entered the bower, she found 
the wretched Eugenie stretched senseless on 
the ground. Shocked as she was, she uttered 
no scream, nor did she lose in useless lamenta- 
tion the moments which were so precious for 
the recovery of the sufferer. She flew to the 
little brook which flowed through the garden, 
and the readiness of reflection supplied her with 
a resource which the want of common conve- 
niences would have rendered unattainable to a 
mind of less self-command. She steeped her 
handkerchief in the stream, and ran back with 
it to the bower. She applied the plentiful 
moisture to her sister’s temples, and had soon 
the happiness to see her revive. I must not 
dwell on the distressing portrait which the poor 
victim presented; nor could I heighten by 
description the pain of every sensitive heart 
which imagines the picture of her wretched- 


64: THE FATHER'S CURSE. 


ness. The first expression of her recovered 
reason was a piercing shriek on perceiving her 
sister where her inhuman lover had so lately 
stood. The memory of all that had passed 
rushed in agony upon her brain; and, with 
long-redoubled cries, she called upon the father 
of her child. Agnes endeavoured to pacify 
her, but in vain. She would not be restrained ; 
and the sounds of her anguished voice soon 
reached the house, and pierced even the recesses 
of her father’s study. 

The first persons of the family who reached 
the spot were her two brothers, who had been 
preparing for their morning sports, and, armed 
with their guns, they rushed towards the bower. 
Their wild inquiries were quickly answered by 
the frantic confessions of Eugenie. Her over- 
loaded heart seemed relieved by every burst of 
agonised reproach, heaped as unsparingly upon 
herself as on the cause of her suffering. Agnes 
would have interposed between the rash avowal 
of Eugenie and the fiery agitation of the youth- 
ful listeners. Her most judicious efforts were, 
however, uselessly exerted; for the exclama- 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 65 


tions of self-conviction were again and again 
repeated, and St. Croix as often accused of 
brutal villany. The brothers, thus wrought 
upon, gave loose to their mutual fury. With 
one glance of indignant sympathy flung upon 
their sister, they rushed through the shrub- 
bery, and were lost to the imploring gaze of 
Agnes, who, still kneeling on the ground, sup- 
ported in her arms the victim of violence and 
exhaustion. 

The servants and labourers now came in, and 
next the mother. To each one was the fatal 
secret openly developed; but in the contem- 
plation of him who followed them I pass over 
the effect produced on more common observers, 
Le Vasseur was the last who reached the 
arbour. ‘The shrieks which had roused him 
from his retirement came more faintly repeated 
as he approached the spot; but the bewailing 
accents of his daughter forcibly caught his 
attention. The sounds of grief seldom pro- 
ceeded from the voice of Eugenie. The pene- 
trating mind of Le Vasseur quickly seized upon 
the truth. As he listened, the life-blood rushed 

VOL. I. F 


66 THE FATHER’S CURSE: 


upwards from his heart, and a suffocating im- 
pression of agony and anger for an instant 
seemed to threaten life itself. His eyes swam, 
and had he not laid hold of a projecting tree, 
he felt that he must have fallen to the earth. 
It was some moments before he could recover 
himself sufficiently to move; and during this 
interval he heard enough, in the continued 
strain of self-accusation from within, to remove 
all shade of doubt, and to arouse the entire 
energies of the agonised father. 

_ He entered the arbour. The paleness of 
united rage and sorrow overspread his face. 
He tottered feebly from the violence of his 
emotion, and large drops, rage-distilled, stood 
on his sternly-furrowed brow. The servants 
and labourers made way as he approached. 
His wife shrunk back, and Agnes sunk her 
head upon the bosom which she had been so 
long supporting. Eugenie alone seemed spell- 
bound by her father’s withering gaze. Her 
eyes wildly glared upon him as he came slowly 
towards her, with uplifted hands clasped above 
his head. As he advanced he spoke not, but 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 67 


fixed his looks upon her. His eyes for a 
moment closed, his brows were knit more 
rigidly, his lips compressed together with a 
sterner energy, his hands trembled on high ; 
and then, as if this short but fearful prepara- 
tion had given his mind full strength, he spoke: 
* Listen, daughter of infamy! listen to the 
curse of him who disowns you for his child. I 
curse you in the moment of your anguish, and 
I pray that it may last with your life. I drive 
you from my heart and my home, and implore 
the heavens, that eternal misery may light upon 
your desolate path !” 

This was uttered in a voice of terrible energy ; 
and when the listening group ventured again to 
look up, the father was seen hurrying from the 
bower, and the object of his malediction was 
once more senseless on the ground. 

Agnes was the first to recover from the shock 
which the horrid fervour of her father had 
given to all. Her mother was flooded in her 
tears, but she could not weep. The springs of 
feeling seemed congealed within her breast, 
and an icy hardness pressing on her heart. 


FQ 


68 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


She felt at the moment that nothing in nature 
was half so terrible as a FatueEr’s Curse; and 
shuddered at the reflection that it was mere 
chance which had spared her, and drew it 
down upon her sister. But there was no time 
for the indulgence of thought: she saw that 
the life of Eugenie was at stake; and in re- 
solute, but, she felt, in right defiance of her 
father’s sentence, she ordered the people to bear 
her sister to the house. Madame Le Vasseur 
gave no sign of approval or disapprobation. ‘The 
servants were always accustomed to regard the 
words of Agnes as law; and humanity joined 
at present in stimulating to the disobedience of 
an unnatural decree. They therefore carried 
the senseless sufferer along. As they passed 
towards the house, Le Vasseur was seen stand- 
ing in a by. path, with one hand clenched in 
involuntary agitation, and the other firmly placed 
upon his forehead, as if to control the angry 
spirit that seemed throbbing in his brain. He 
looked upon the melancholy procession un- 
moved, and saw it enter the house. The fol- 
lowers were all delighted at this tacit approval 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 69 


on the part of the father; but Agnes trembled 
anew as she gazed on the spectacle of his silent 
apathy. 

Eugenie was borne to her own chamber, and 
placed before an open window. The repeated 
applications usual on such occasions brought 
her once more to herself. She had begun to 
revive, and was weeping bitterly, surrounded 
by her mother and sisters, when a new object 
of agitation and terror came to add to the 
calamities of this momentous day. A shot was 
heard from the vineyard. It came like the 
sound of fate to the ready anticipation of 
Eugenie. Agnes, too, felt an instinctive appre- 
hension at a report so common, and at other 
times so harmless; but her whole attention was 
turned to tranquillise her whose destiny, per- 
haps, hung upon the intelligence of the next 
moment. 

While the sisters thus looked out in the vio- 
lence of their emotion, a woful spectacle pre- 
sented itself. ‘The brothers were seen issuing 
from the vineyard, bearing between them the 
bleeding body of St. Croix. Eugenie started 


70 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


from her seat, and in the frenzy of overwrought 
excitement she rushed from the house, followed 
by the scarcely less shocked spectators. She 
quickly met the object of her search; and be- 
fore prevention could interfere, she flung her- 
self upon her bleeding lover, accusing herself as 
the cause of his murder, and heaping execra- 
tions on the brothers, whose hands she intui- 
tively concluded to have dealt the fatal blow. 
St. Croix was not, however, dead, but the life- 
blood was gushing fast away; and here again 
the presence of mind of Agnes was most 
strikingly displayed. She despatched messen- 
gers in two or three directions, in search of. 
surgical aid ; stanched the dreadful wound which 
had lacerated the breast of St. Croix, and had 
him quietly placed in the bed which he had 
so long occupied in the vigorous repose of health. 
He had fainted from pain and loss of blood, 
and was as insensible to the anguish of the one 
sister as to the wisdom of the other. Eugenie, 
the miserable Eugenie, could no longer support 
this terrible excitement. She saw her lover 


laid upon his bed—his eyes were closed, she 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 71 


thought, for ever—and, sinking under the over- 
whelming pressure of her anguish, she was 
carried again to her chamber in the raging 
violence of a fever. 

The causes which led to the immediate situ- 
ation of St. Croix are quickly told. We left 
him pondering on the part which he was to 
pursue; but I had anticipated his decision of 
giving to Eugenie the only reparation for his 
injurious and unjust demeanour, by joining 
himself to her for ever. He was returning to- 
wards the garden, with his heart full of this 
resolve, and bursting with anxiety to utter it, 
when he was met and abruptly accosted by the 
brothers, who had sought him all round the 
farm. Their young breasts burned with swell- 
ing energy, and their brains were almost mad- 
dened by the sorrowful picture on which they 
had just gazed. The elder of the two ap- 
proached St. Croix, and fiercely accosted him : 
“ Are you a man? I know you to be a villain. 
Here! take this gun (presenting him that be- 
longing to his brother). Place yourself on your 


guard—stand firm, for you have but a moment 


"2 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


to live.’-—‘* My dear Adolphe.”—“ What! 
villain, does your coward heart fail you?” 'That 
was enough. St. Croix was as impetuous as 
his young antagonist. The magic of one word 
had turned his blood to flame. He took the 
fowling-piece, and placed himself in the atti- 
tude to fire. Adolphe, at twenty paces from 
him, did the same. The younger brother was 
to give the signal; but ere he could pronounce 
it, St. Croix’s better feelings once more pre- 
vailed, and the gun remained in his hands un-. 
cocked. ‘The signal to fire was given, and 
Adolphe obeyed it too well. Almost the whole 
charge of small shot entered the breast of St. 
Croix, who was sensible to nothing farther, until 
yoused by the painful operations of the surgeons, 
endeavouring to extract the shot. | 

The youthful instruments of his suffering 
were deeply affected. They felt that shrinking 
from themselves experienced by every humane 
man who has the misfortune to shed blood, 
even in an honest cause. They applied to 
their father for consolation, but he had none to 
give them: he had more need of it than they. 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 13 


The daughter that he loved—the friend so 
highly valued—both in such imminent danger 
of death. His paternal tenderness abused— 
his confidence betrayed—his offended pride— 
his wounded honour—all that could be ima- 
gined of suffering to such a man, was accumu- 
lated in one dreadful storm, the suddenness of 
which was an aggravation of every individual 
horror. He stood, indeed, in want of consola- 
tion; and, most of all, of that consolation which 
he could not command. It was religion that 
he needed, to bear him up in this hour of trial. 
Philosophy and virtue were unavailing; and 
he exhibited a melancholy instance of strength 
of mind sinking under the more powerful sway 
of force of feeling. He had roused all his 
faculties to action when he pronounced the 
terrible curse upon his daughter; but such a 
display of desperation was not the natural man. 
It was the effort of that artificial character 
which he had for years been struggling to make 
his own. It was sufficient for the moment, but 
no more. While the anathema yet quivered on 


his lip, he saw a portion of its command in- 


74 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


fringed, yet he saw this violation without power 
to control its progress; and after reaching the 
farthest stretch of stoical exertion, he sunk down 
under all the weakness of humanity. 

I cannot depict the state of his mind during 
the days which elapsed before St. Croix and 
Eugenie were declared out of danger. He 
passed this time in frequent and violent strug- 
gles as to the course he should pursue. His 
natural feelings told him to forgive his daughter, 
in compassion for her sufferings, while his as- 
sumed disposition urged him to persist in cast- 
ing her off for ever. The contest ended as 
might be expected, when nature is the anta- 
gonist of art. The victory was on the side of 
clemency, and the good sense of Le Vasseur 
told him that he was right. 

St. Croix had repeatedly, during his illness, 
sent assurances to Le Vasseur that his only 
hope for life was, that he might repair his 
injury to Eugenie, and make her happy. His 
own father was the negotiator between them, 
and the whole neighbourhood joined their soli- 


citations for mercy to those so strongly urged 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 15 


by the immediate members of the two suffering 
families. Le Vasseur was glad of so plausible 
an excuse, and he strove to make a dignified 
merit of yielding to their prayers what every 
body saw that his heart was yearning to grant. 

His first interview with St. Croix was very 
interesting, but that with his daughter was 
affecting in the extreme. During the delirium 
of her fever, she had repeatedly fancied that 
she saw her father, and in her frequent ravings 
had called on his name. She sometimes im- 
plored, and sometimes defied him ;—heaped on 
him, at one moment, the most endearing appel- 
lations; at another, loaded him with epithets of 
fearful execration. ‘These heart-rending wan- 
derings sunk deep into the mind of Agnes, and 
she fervently hoped, again and again, that she 
might die before such a state as that should be 
her lot. 

At length the crisis of Eugenie’s fever passed 
by, and, whether from the natural force of her 
constitution, or the more probable cause that 
she had not been worn down by the over-done 


severity of medical aid, she seemed to have lost 


76 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


but little of her former strength, and a few days 
made a rapid change for the better in her 
appearance. Still, though she had not the 
haggard and emaciated look which a fever 
patient in England carries for weeks after his 
recovery, she was but the shadow of her former 
loveliness. She looked pale and exhausted, 
and her mind seemed to be yet more worn 
down than her body. She believed her lover 
to be dead, and the physicians thought it 
dangerous for awhile to undeceive her. With 
her recovered reason she caught the recollection 
of St. Croix, and the melancholy hope of joining 
him in the grave where she believed him buried. 
She refused, under different pretences, the 
nourishment necessary for life itself, and under 
those circumstances it became absolutely re- 
quisite, even at the risk of a relapse, to inform 
her of the only truth that could induce her to 
live. 

For the performance of this task her father 
was considered the best qualified ; and he con- 
sented to see her for the purpose of assuring 
her of his forgiveness, and of communicating 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. cf 


the intelligence which was to give his pardon 
the most effectual value. Eugenie ardently 
expected this first interview; for, feeling that 
she could not live, she was miserable at leaving 
the world without her father’s blessing pro- 
nounced from his own lips. Her mother and 
Agnes had repeatedly told her of his forgive- 
ness, but she was not satisfied with this. She 
prayed that she might be allowed to see him, 
and was so much agitated by the delays insisted 
on by the physicians, that they at length con- 
sidered the emotions to be looked for from the 
meeting were less to be apprehended than the 
effects of her protracted anxiety. 

The hour being at length fixed for the in- 
teresting visit, the father announced his readi- 
ness to proceed to her chamber, and the time 
approached. She received the announcement 
with composed delight, and seemed calmly pre- 
pared for the arduous scene; but in a little time 
she betrayed symptoms of uneasy apprehension 
and occasional wanderings of thought and ex- 
pression. A feverish flushing stole over her 
pallid cheeks, and she was seen occasionally to 


78 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


turn her eyes towards the door with a wildness of 
gaze that was thought symptomatic of a relapse. 
At length her state of nervous irritability be- 
came so oppressive, that she begged that her 
father might not see her that day. Her mother 
was commissioned to be the bearer of this wish ; 
but, ere she had left the chamber a minute, 
Agnes was despatched by the capricious suf- 
ferer to recal the postponement, and request 
his presence. He accordingly, in no slight 
emotion, prepared to attend the summons, but 
had not reached her chamber-door, accompa- 
nied by his wife and Agnes, when one of the 
younger sisters once more forbade his entrance. 
As they entered the chamber he retired, and 
had but just again composed himself to his 
study, when a renewed entreaty from the agi- 
tated invalid was borne by the remaining sister, 
cancelling the last prohibition, and soliciting his 
immediate presence. 

Le Vasseur was almost overpowered by these 
proofs of the misery of his unhappy child. If 
one lurking feeling of resentment still lingered 
in his bosom, it was utterly erased by the force 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 19 


of her affliction, and in moving once more, in 
tacit obedience to her call, he almost felt him- 
self unequal to the trying scene. He, however, 
summoned up all his fortitude, and reached 
her chamber-door. He here paused, and half 
hoped that some renewal of Eugenie’s appre- 
hensions might come to prevent the exposure 
of his own. He shook the handle of the door 
with noise sufficient to announce his approach, 
but no voice pronounced the wished-for oppo- 
sition to his entrance. He next coughed aloud, 
knowing that by that he should be recognized. 
All was, however, still. He then desired his 
daughter, who accompanied him, to go softly 
in, and see if Eugenie did not sleep; and, as 
she entered, he leant forward, in the hope of 
catching the heavy breathing which heralds 
the momentary repose of illness. But his wife 
appeared, and beckoned him in. He had no 
alternative; he could not shrink back, and he 
made a final effort to recover his firmness. His 
wonted severity of aspect and utterance was 
now forgotten, and, in this moment of trial, the 


80 THE FATHER'S CURSE. 


man completely triumphed over the philoso- 
pher. 

Eugenie heard him enter, but she saw him 
not. She did not venture to look up. A film 
seemed spread before her eyes. She trembled 
in every limb. Her heart leaped with violence, 
and fancy pictured her father with the counte- 
nance, and in the attitude, in which she had 
last gazed on him. The appalling recollection 
rushed upon her mind, and vibrated in terror 
through her feeble frame. She buried her 
head beneath the bed-covering, and exclaimed 
aloud, that she could not, dared not, look upon 
him. He in a tremulous and tender voice pro- 
nounced her name. ‘ Eugenie, my child!” 
were the only words that he could utter; but 
the tone in which he spoke them was like magic 
to the daughter’s feelings—so plaintive, so ex- 
pressive, so unlike his usual firm enunciation— 
she felt lightened of a load of fear; and, with 
an electric impulse of delight, she started up 
and saw her father. Could it be him? she in- 
voluntarily asked herself—sunk on one knee 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 81 


beside the bed—his brow unbent—his lips 
quivering—his voice choked with sobs, and his 
~ eyes streaming with tears! She uttered a cry of 
mingled rapture and amazement, and flung her- 
self into the arms which opened wide to fold her 


to a parent’s heart. 
* % * * * 


VOL. I. G 


82 THE FATHER'S CURSE. 


CHAPTER V. 


Two years from this day saw France relieved 
from war, and the family of Le Vasseur once 
more at peace and happy. Eugenie, the mar- 
ried mother of two beautiful children, living in 
her own home; her eldest brother returned from 
Spain, covered with honourable wounds and 
well earned fame; the two younger boys grown 
up to gallant youths ; the younger sisters lovely _ 
and accomplished ; and Agnes possessed of the 
only want of her heart—a lover. 

The nuptials of Eugenie and St. Croix, which 
immediately followed his convalescence, were a 
festival of general joy to all within the circle of 
the family acquaintance. There was something 
so interesting, so romantic, so sentimental, in the 
adventure, that the most powerful sympathy was 
excited in behalf of the united lovers. 


The wedding festivities were gay and grace- 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 83 


ful, Musie ushered in the morning, and dancing 
closed the day. Crowds of admiring friends 
attended the young couple to the Mairie* and 
the church; for the ceremonies of religion 
added their sanction to the civil contract re- 
quired by the law. Many a flower was ravished 
from its stem to strew the path of the bridal 
party; and the quickly fading bloom of the 
bouquets seemed an appropriate warning to the 
chief personage of the procession. She, the 
thoughtless Eugenie, moved on, blithe and 
blushing, not from modesty but joy. Her look 
resembled not the fluctuations of a bridal coun- 
tenance which I once gazed on. There the 
mingled emotions of virgin agitation at one 
moment flushed the cheek with crimson, the 
next called back the burning tide to swell the 
maiden’s heart, and leave her visage colourless; 
—bringing to my remembrance the varying 
beauties which I had seen in the passes of 
a mountain chain, when some graceful peak, 
clothed in heaven’s whitest snow, blushed for 


* The town-house. 


84 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


an instant in the roseate light of a refracted sun- 
beam, and then, as the slant ray verged down 
the hill, relapsed into its hue of mild yet dazzling 
purity. 

But the triumphant glance of Eugenie spoke 
only a consciousness of her victory over ill- 
fortune. Snatched from the threshold of the 
grave, she gained no salutary advantage from 
her escape, but turned back upon the world 
with redoubled relish for its most worthless va- 
nities. She thought not of the past, nor looked 
forward to what was to come; but clung to the 
present enjoyment, as buoyant as the light- 
winged hours which were fleeting so fast and 
sunny over her span of life. St. Croix sup- 
ported her on his arm, and his pallid brow 
showed the occasional furrow traced by some 
flitting recollection. He behaved however well, 
and wore a firmif not an enraptured demeanour. 
Every member of the Le Vasseur family at- 
tended. The affectionate mother wept floods 
of joyous tears. The sisters indulged freely in 
her happiness. The sons showed a frank and 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 85 


manly satisfaction, and Le Vasseur himself bore 
up in unison with the general appearance of 
content. 

St. Croix and his wife removed immediately 
to the house of his father, whose widowed soli- 
tude was cheered by such a happy accession to 
his domestic enjoyments. His comfort was how- 
ever of short duration; for the perturbation of 
mind which had so violently acted upon a feeble 
constitution, during the late trying circum- 
stances, brought him to the grave in less thana 
year after the marriage of his son. St. Croix 
became thus master of his property, and having 
neither brother nor sister, he was very well in 
the world; and, with the peculiar facility of a 
French philosopher, he flung off every notion of 
his former views, renounced his shadowy hopes 
of fame, and, settling down into the farmer of 
his own ground, gave himself up to those rural 
occupations for which his neighbourhood was so 
well adapted. 

Kugenie, in her new capacity of mistress of 
a family, had an ample field for the display of 


her natural character. The warmth of her 


86 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


heart had now free channels into which it could 
run; and her wilder feelings being bounded by 
a settled object, she was in less danger of suf- 
fering from their excess. Her old acquaintances 
flocked round her with undiminished fondness, 
and no notion of disrespect attached itself to the 
memory of her misconduct. 

Kugenie, however, in the midst of her appa- 
rent enjoyments, had one subject of severe re- 
gret, sufficient to chill the warmest of her plea- 
sures; and in the bloom of all her joys there 
was a canker at her heart. Although not at all 
sunk in her own esteem, or her husband’s, or 
her mother’s, or her friends’, she saw clearly 
that she had for ever lost her father’s. She 
felt bitterly his evidently uncontrollable dislike. 
He appeared toshun her society even at his own 
house; and she naturally felt a disinclination 
to meet him at hers. In short, there was but 
little intercourse between them ; but the younger 
branches of the family often saw each other. 

Le Vasseur, having lost in a great measure 
his fondness for his eldest daughter, seemed to 
turn with a tenfold affection to Agnes. She 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 87 


had always been his favourite child, and re- 
sembled him more than any of the others in 
all the better parts of his character. She was 
drawni still closer to him by his feeling towards 
her sister, for she pitied him, knowing that he 
felt himself disgraced as well as afflicted; and 
though differing widely with him on the main 
point of Eugenie’s guilt, she took care not to 
shock him by any avowal of her opinion on a 
subject upon which his was so decided. While 
lavishing every kindness that he had the means 
of bestowing to meet each want and wish of 
Agnes, decorating his house anew according to 
her taste, and forgetting the austerity of his 
character in the overflowing of his indulgence, 
Le Vasseur still neglected no opportunity of re- 
curring with the whole weight of his reasoning 
to the subject which gave rise to his present 
conduct. He was evidently dissatisfied with 
the part he had acted on that occasion. He 
saw that he had lost the finest opportunity of 
his life for leaving behind him the character of 
that unbending and implacable virtue, to esta- 


blish whieh his whole life had been devoted. 


88 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


He felt himself little in comparison to what he 
had been; degraded in the eyes of those who 
had looked upon him as a paragon of repub- 
lican firmness; and he was conscious that he 
had descended from the pedestal of his pride 
to mingle in the common ranks of every-day 
men. 

The mortification which this caused him was 
much more powerful than any counterbalancing 
pleasure founded on the applause which he had 
obtained. He had seen so much evil produced 
in the world by the plastic characters of those 
who are thought the best, that he would have 
rather been an object of fear than of affection ; 
and, unsatisfied at the late example of his weak- 
ness, he almost wished, at times, for an oppor- 
tunity of redeeming his character by giving a 
proof of his severity. 

But these last were flitting and unsettled 
thoughts: in his better moments he had none 
of them. ‘They were the wayward errings of 
his artificial mind: his natural feelings revolted 
from them; and he was even sometimes, in the 
fulness of his heart, disposed to think that he 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 89 


had rather relieved his reputation from the 
stain of harshness than loaded it with the 
stigma of unsteadiness. “If, however,” he 
used to exclaim, “if another instance should 


> 


occur!—” But he never could finish the sen- 
tence, nor allow his thoughts to dwell on the 
anticipation. 

If Le Vasseur wished to have procured a 
husband for Eugenie before the unfortunate 
connexion that ended in her marriage, much 
more ardently did he now hope to be able to 
fix on suitable matches for his remaining daugh- 
ters. But still, with that frightful example 
before his eyes, he knew not how to accomplish 
his desire. He had ever been averse to matches 
of mere interest, or those formed in the usual 
heartless and business-like manner which is 
customary in France, where love is, generally 
speaking, a matter as foreign to marriage as 
friendship in a mercantile transaction with us; 
where the fortune of the man is thrown into one 
scale, and that of his intended bride into the 
other; when, if she is “found wanting,” her 


family, her connexions, and her interest, are’ 


90 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


flung in to make up the balance; but where 
beauty, accomplishment, or virtue, have scarcely 
weight enough to turn the beam. 

My story is a proof that there are exceptions 
to this general habit, and Le Vasseur had full 
to view the danger of encouraging a union 
founded on mutual attachment. The risks of 
sueh a connexion appalled him, and he shud- 
dered when he saw an agreeable young man 
pay a visit at his house. The violence, or at 
least the sternness of his political principles, was 
a great bar to the attainment of his heart’s first 
object. Interests became so divided, and ani- 
mosities so strong, party spirit ran so high, and 
party hatred so deep, that the ruin of society was 
the consequence. 

The overthrow of the imperial dynasty, and 
the re-establishment of the Bourbons, produced 
a convulsion of opinions which is known to all 
the world; but few, who have not seen the di- 
stant effects proceeding from these grand trans- 
actions, can form a just idea of the evils which 
hang upon the movements of the great. It is 
not in the crowded capital that such conse- 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 91 


quences can be estimated. There every circle 
of society plays round an axis of its own, but 
does not interrupt the evolutions of the others, 
forming with it a general system. There things 
go on as ifno change had been. The theatres, 
the public walks, and the churches, are as 
crowded as ever, and men gaze on their fellows 
without frown or sneer, because they cannot 
from the million single out each particular opi-— 
nion. A few only are marked by their avowal. 
One cannot stop another in the street, and ask 
for the confession of his faith; and the mixture 
of so many varying shades blends insensibly into 
a mass of general colouring, while the perpetual 
contact of opposite feelings rubs off the asperi- 
ties from their surface. It is that which gives 
the true polish to city manners in the worst 
commotions; but in the remote seclusion of the 
country all is different. ‘there men move in 
the open daylight of public cognizance. There 
are no hiding-places wherein they may skulk, 
nor crowds to give them shelter. Every indi- 
vidual of the thin-scattered population is a mark 


for the observation of the others; and each one 


92 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


carries the stamp of his opinions upon him, as 
plain as if he bore the label of his party round 
his neck. 

In scenes so confined, men are, in quiet times, 
joined together for their common comfort; but 
when the moment comes in which their interests 
clash, the ties which bound them are snapt 
asunder with a sharpness proportioned to their 
former tension. ‘They fly off from each other 
like opposing metals in a crucible, and every 
figure stands out upon the scene in all the naked 
individuality of relief. They then herd toge- 
ther—but there is no grace in their combina- 
tions ; and society looks like a piece of patch- 
work, where different colours every where glare 
out in independent solitude. 

It is thus that every distinct set lends its aid 
to the general deformity, and the great charm 
of every thing living or inanimate, variety, is 
lost. Every house becomes a nest for the nou- 
rishment of prejudice, while every disjointed 
member of the common family hangs loose and 
incapable of performing its functions; and, in- 


stead of aiding in the general harmony of 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 95 


nature, looks like a breaking out upon its fair 
and beauteous face. 

Le Vasseur was one of those who lent their 
unintended aid to this demoralizing system. 
His idol was consistency ; and in straining after 
it, he too often stretched a good feeling to ex- 
cess. He wasa rigid republican; and during 
the short interval of one hundred days, when 
the return of Buonaparte brought about events 
which changed the destiny of the world, Le 
Vasseur thought he saw a bright occasion for 
the re-establishment of that form of govern- 
ment which had his whole devotion. He boldly 
promulgated his views, and hoped to make him- 
self a rallying point for all who thought with 
him. Many did come forward; and, had suf- 
ficient time been given for ripening their de- 
signs, the mischief might have spread. But 
the fate of Europe could not wait for the tardy 
developement of these Utopian schemes, and 
Louis was once more fixed upon the throne 
which, it was discovered, had no chance of 
security unless it was erected on a constitutional 
basis. 


94, THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


Le Vasseur again sunk down into domestic 
quiet; but he excluded from his house all who, 
by deed or word, gave support to the reigning 
family. St. Croix was not so rigid: his military 
life had thrown him amongst men of all opi- 
nions and principles; and amongst those too, of 
no opinions and no principles. He was not a 
little infected by the general laxity of his asso- 
ciates; and, while he talked of liberality in the 
formation of his friendships, it was, in fact, 
licentiousness which he had in his mind. He 
mixed a good deal with his neighbours of poli- 
tics different from those which he professed— 
which were those of his family and connexions ; 
and Agnes and her sisters met at his house many 
persons who were never admitted to the sanctuary 
of their home. 

Foremost among these visitors, in every thing 
which Agnes considered amiable and attractive, 
was the young de Monigny, the son of an emi- 
grant who had returned from England with 
the king; and who, having lost beyond redemp- 
tion the entire of his large possessions, had been 
appointed to an official situation, of slight emolu- 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 95 


ment, in the town close by St. Croix’s residence. 
The son, who, like most young men of that sta- 
. tion, was very poor, and very idle, soon became 
a favourite with St. Croix, and was often in- 
vited to his house. But he had better claims 
upon the admiration and regard of Agnes. A 
good person and expressive countenance were 
his most trivial advantages. ‘The gravity of 
his deportment assorted well with her own; and 
the reflective, yet cheerful turn of his conversa- 
tion, seemed the result of good sense engrafted 
on good nature, and formed a fine contrast with 
the flashy and flimsy manners of St. Croix. De 
Monigny had been brought up in England from 
his childhood. He spoke the language like a 
native; had studied the literature, the institu- 
tions, and the habits of the people, and had 
turned his observations to account. With all 
that noble warmth of national feeling, of which 
no Frenchman can divest himself, he possessed 
an open eye to the manifold faults of his coun- 
trymen ;—but he was also sensible of their many 
merits, as well as of the errors of the nation he 
had so recently quitted. His study had long 


96 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


been to form for himself a character composed 
of the better qualities of both nations; and being 
one of the happy few whose feelings are sub- 
servient to their reason,—whose hearts submit 
to the dictates of their heads—he completely 
succeeded in his design. Thus, at thirty years 
of age (when Agnes first saw him), he was one 
of those rare and inestimable models of man- 
ners, conduct, and character, which it would be 
well if the awkward English youth, and the 
blustering young Frenchman, more frequently 
studied. 

Agnes had just passed her twentieth year, a 
period when a female in the south of France 
acquires her full maturity of manners as well as 
mien. If the women there want the brilliant 
bloom which girls of that age wear in England, 
and that exquisite air of innocence which is no- 
where to be rivalled, they have other charms 
peculiar and almost equivalent.— An eye of fire, 
often tempered by reflection; a lip of ripe luxu- 
riance; ringlets of polished jet, and teeth of 
pearl: while, under the autumnal tint of their 
transparent skin, the young blood circles on, 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 97 


giving a hue of mellow richness to the cheek, 
less bright but more subdued. Then the ever- 
beaming expression of their glance—their in- 
telligence—their softened air, that happy medium 
between languor and indifference—their light 
and graceful figures!—Agnes united all within 
herself. No wonder, then, if between her and 
de Monigny a sympathy of tastes was followed 
by a mutual passion. 

The lover, however, was no boy, nor his mis- 
tress a child. They saw their mutual danger. 
He was pennyless, for the scanty allowance 
granted him by his father was revocable at will; 
and he knew that his consent to such a match 
was out of the question. Agnes, on her part, 
remembered Eugenie. She felt also the indul- 
gent kindness of her father; she knew that 
his happiness depended much on her, and she 
dreaded the impossibility of obtaining his sanc- 
tion to her attachment. Such were the startling 
obstacles which lay in the way of Agnes and 
de Monigny, but they considered them too late 
—for they loved already; and a passion so 
forcible and so well founded would have defied 


VOL. I. H 


98 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


the warnings of a philosophy stronger even than 
theirs. 

Eugenie soon perceived the nature of her 
sister’s feelings, and she half rejoiced in the 
danger to which she fancied her exposed. See- 
ing no sort of criminality in the indulgence she 
had herself practised, she rather took pains to 
facilitate her sister’s following her track, than 
made efforts to turn her from it; and uncon- 
scious of the real cause of her own feelings, 
which arose from that mingled selfishness and 
envy, the first consequence of guilt, she wished 
that Agnes might fall into the snare, confident 
that she would then, as well as herself, become 
the object of her father’s estrangement, or, per- 
haps, by striking a new blow at his pride, weaken 
the strength of his particular resentment. She 
therefore carefully fanned the rising flame, and 
her impatience made her often question Agnes 
as to its progress. 

Agnes, however, made no confident to her 
attachment. She continued for some months 
to receive the professions of her lover, and she 
confessed to him alone the strength of her 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 99 


affection. They would have wilfully placed a 
bandage before their eyes, but they could not 
blind themselves to the utter hopelessness of 
their passion. They were neither of them, how- 
ever, of that reckless and indolent turn, which 
makes lovers sometimes sink under the weight 
of their despair, and seems to impart a charm 
to its worst excesses. Agnes calculated a little 
on her father’s unbounded affection. De Mo- 
nigny knew that he possessed the esteem, as 
well as regard of his parent; and they agreed, 
by mutual plan, to endeavour to procure some 
relaxation of their relative severity. Agnes 
knew full well the impossibility of shaking Le 
Vasseur’s political dislikes; but she had a faint 
hope that, by well arranged efforts, she might 
weaken one (it was all she asked) of his personal 
prejudices. 

On every fair occasion she brought before him 
the particular merits of her lover, but that in 
a manner so guarded, as at first not to rouse his 
suspicions. The frequent recurrence to the 
same topic, and the animation with which the 
self-deceived Agnes discussed the character of 


He 


100 THE FATHER’S CURSE.” 


one whom she affected to speak of with indif- 
ference, could not, however, escape her father’s 
penetration ; and in one of those conversations, 
brought about by Agnes, an unguarded: warmth, 
in one of her eulogiums, told him clearly that 
her heart was irretrievably engaged. He con- 
sidered de Monigny (although he had never seen 
him) as an enemy, in common with all his party. 
No sooner did the conviction of his daughter's 
attachment to an object so detested flash across 
his mind, than he felt himself the most desolate 
of mankind. 

He burst into no paroxysm of rage, nor did 
one word of reproach fall from his lips. He 
looked as though the whole weight of destiny 
had fallen to crush him, and seemed bowed down 
by the magnitude of his misery. 

Agnes saw the emotion which agitated her 
father, and it cut her to the soul. She ad- 
dressed him in the most affectionate and sooth- 
ing accents—assured him that the gratitude and 
~ affection which she owed him were nothing 
impaired—that her heart by being divided by 


two objects, with claims equally irresistible, 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 101 


but totally distinct, would acquire strength in 
its movements, and stability in its devotion. 
She fixed her streaming eyes full upon his, and 
entreated him to reply; but he answered not 
a word. Resentment appeared dead to every 
possibility of utterance, but his locks were 
daggers. 

Agnes was racked with the most agitated 
sensations. It was the first time that she had 
ever caused her father a painful moment, and 
she felt that her offence was wilful. But, with 
all the aggravation which this consciousness 
brought to her distress, the idea of abandoning 
her lover. never entered her mind. She flung 
herself on her knees, and took her father’s 
hands in hers. She wildly strained them to 
her heart, but they returned no pressure. She 
put them to her lips, and the tears which fell 
on them in showers spoke much more forcibly 
than words; but all seemed lost on the im- 
moveable sorrow of Le Vasseur. She implored 
his pardon—his pity: appealed to every thing 
generous in his nature; to every liberal senti- 


ment; to every fatherly feeling. A cold atten- 


102 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


tion to her words was, for a considerable time, 
all she could obtain. At length, as if life seemed 
to awaken again within him, he recovered his 
wonted animation. His eyes fixed themselves 
upon her, but not with their accustomed ten- 
derness. A glazed fixedness usurped the place 
of their usual expression, and a sternly sorrowful 
composure sat upon his brow. He spoke, and 
the agitated listener hung upon his words with 
the air of one who waited for the sentence of life 
or death. He addressed her with solemnity ; 
briefly, but forcibly, pointed out the probable 
consequences of the attachment she had formed ; 
its evils, and, as he thought, its error. All this 
was pronounced with a determined coolness that 
she saw was the forerunner of some terrible 
decision. It was so in fact, for he swore that he 
never would consent to the union she desired; 
and that if she persisted in her determination te 
complete it, it was at her peril; for on its entire 
abandonment depended his ever again acknow- 
ledging her for his child. 

He left her with a calm and measured au- 


sterity. Agnes remamed for some time buried 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 103 


in thought; but she gradually recovered her 
accustomed serenity, and when she met her 
father at the dinner-table, showed no change in 
look or demeanour. He, on the contrary, was 
silent and sorrowful; a dark and desperate 
struggle seemed to work in his breast, but far 
too deep to be betrayed by any common ex- 
pression of pain. Agnes seemed to have re- 
covered. the shock, and te have already decided 
on her future steps. She had got over the fear 
of her father’s determination, while he in his 
turn now dreaded that resolution which she 
possessed in common with himseif, but in a 
more forcible degree, from hers being natural, 
and his assumed. She hoped in vain to con- 
tinue her self-command, and he fruitlessly en- 
deavoured to assume her tone; but an involun- 
tary restraint was the consequent effect of their 
separate sensations, and it was as firmly esta- 
blished as if it had been fixed by mutual consent. 
He did not, therefore, object, a few days after- 
wards, to a proposal of his wife, that Agnes 
should go to pass some time at the house of 


Kugenie. Le Vasseur had great reliance on the 


104 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


wisdom of Agnes, and he thought that by leay- 
ing her to its unrestricted sway, he was domg 
more toward the attainment of his object, than 
by offering in restraint incentives to disobe- 
dience. 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 105 


CHAPTER VI. 


On her arrival at St. Croix’s she was met by 
the impatient de Monigny. He too had seen his 
father, and had as ineffectually endeavoured to 
subdue his inveterate opposition. ‘The only 
point the indignant father would concede was a 
confirmation of the trifling pension which he had 
hitherto allowed him; and on this inadequate 
sum the ardent lover resolved at all hazards to 
attempt his own and his mistress’s support. The 
communication of their mutual failure, and their 
mutual grief, seemed to bind more closely their 
united hearts, fer nature nor art holds no cement 
like sympathy of woe. 

St. Croix and Eugenie, who were now in the 
confidence and counsel of the lovers, were present 
at this interview. They had never seen him so 


unmanned nor her so overcome. They essayed 


106 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


their kindest efforts to console them, but finding 
all fruitless, they left them to themselves. 

From this day Agnes visibly ped away. ‘The 
glow of mind which formerly shone in her face 
seemed overcast by a hopeless and immoveable 
affliction. Her eye was dull and her cheek with- 
out bloom. No smile of pleasing thought played 
round her parched and colourless lip. Her hair 
hung disordered over her brow, and her hands 
fell listless by her side. Her ear was open to all 
sounds; but those of joy awoke no echo in her 
brain, which seemed to reverberate only to tones 
of grief and lamentation; while the burning 
thought within consumed her beauty and her 
happiness. | 

Her father saw her wasting away, and he him- 
self appeared to decline as fast as she did. The 
secret of her attachment became known to all the 
family, and while all participated in the despon- 
dency of the father and daughter, they neverthe- 
less made many hopeless and forlorn attempts to 
remove it. The manly remonstrances of the 
eldest son, the entreaties of St. Crorx and Ku- 


genie, the silent tears of the mother, the smiling 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 107 


endearment of the younger children, were all 
tried in vain upon Le Vasseur. He had throned 
- himself upon a rock of resolution from which no- 
thing could remove him; but with the self-con- 
fident blindness, which ever waits on obstinacy, 
-he could see no danger init. He trusted to his 
vigorous resistance gaining the victory in the 
end ; and as his solicitors, in the behalf of Agnes, 
dropped off one by one from their energetic 
efforts, he only waited for the hour when she 
herself should pay the tribute to his determina- 
tion, by yielding up her lover for her father’s 
sake. 

On this principle he did not even oppose her 
seeing de Monigny, for not doubting the result, 
he hoped his triumph would be the greater. 
This feeling did not proceed from any selfish or 
unworthy vanity; but he looked forward to the 
good effects of the example on his other children, 
and knew that it would be striking in proportion 
to its strength. Agnes, therefore, was frequently 
at St. Croix’s, and saw de Monigny often and 


unrestrained. His passion seemed to grow with 


108 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


every hour, and his urgency for their marriage 
with every obstacle. Her attachment was ten- 
derly but placidly evident; and her friends, 
affected by her worn and wasted appearance, 
urged her, upon the time of her reaching the 
age which authorized her by law, to join herself 
to her lover in defiance of an unjust and positive 
parent. De Monigny was not backward in argu- 
ments to persuade her to this step; and Agnes 
herself knew that it must be the final alternative. 

But as the day of her legal emancipation from 
parental authority arrived, she determined to 
make one effort more to melt the obduracy of 
Le Vasseur. At the very hour on which she 
completed her twenty-first year, she broke in 
unexpectedly on the retirement of his study, and 
flung herself upon his neck. He understood 
and felt the appeal, and for a moment his arms 
instinctively closed around her. ‘‘ Oh, my father ! 
my dear father!” cried Agnes, “ drive me not to 
utter despair. You know not what you are 
doing by your rigid resolution. Give me your 


consent to be happy and respectable. You 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 109 


must, you must!” Her sobbing rendered fur- 
ther speech impossible, but her choked and con- 
vulsive efforts to articulate told that she had a 
world of arguments to urge. She would have 
gone on, but her father, gently disengaging him- 
self, desired her, in a tone scarcely audible, to 
leave him. She would not, however, be repulsed. 
She clung to him as he strove to escape from her 
embrace. Her tears rolled upon his cheeks, and 
she even thought his own were mingled with 
them. But even if they were, they had not 
power to wash away his firm resolution. He 
gathered all the firmness of his voice, and re- 
peated his determination to see her die, and to 
die himself, sooner than give the required con- 
sent; and he was at last obliged forcibly to put 
her from him, and to escape from the struggle 
which he doubted his power to prolong. 

That interview of misery was the last in which 
she ever saw her father. As soon as she could 
recover her presence of mind, and sufficient bodily 
strength, she arose and left the apartment. With- 


eut delay, or consultation with any of the family, 


110 THE FATHER’S CURSE 


she hurried from the house, and im the unfixed 
wildness of despair she traversed the road which 
led to the residence of her sister. Arrived there, 
she communicated the result of her attempt to 
de Monigny, St. Croix, and Eugenie. Her re- 
solution was now unequivocal ; and an immediate 
application, as prescribed by the laws, was made 
on her part to her father, demanding his consent 
to her intended marriage. A prompt refusal was 
the consequence. Another and another demand, 
followed by negatives, as steady and inflexible, 
left nothing which public rule considered as ob- 
stacles; and the necessary previous ceremonials 
being gone through, de Monigny led his affianced 
bride to the presence of the public officer, before 
whom the inviolable contract was required to be 
solemnized. ‘They were attended by St. Croix 
and Eugenie—no more. How different to the 
glad procession which usually accompanies a 
wedded couple! How unlike the expensive and 
joyous celebration of Eugenie’s own nuptials! 
Instead of the gaudy crowd, showering flowers 


and blessings on the youthful pair, there was no 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 111 


one to be seen but some gazing stragglers, at- 
tracted to the spot by uninterested and listless 
curiosity. The friends of both families kept far 
away, or if a passing few encountered by chance 
the progress of the bridal party, they hurried 
from the path with averted eyes, as if there were 
contagion in its train. A beggar or two gave 
their common-place and sordid benediction,—and 
thus escorted, they entered the public office. 
The Mayor, who was an intimate frend of de 
Monigny’s father, went through the duty which 
his situation imposed on him with a cold and 
sullen reserve. The greffier, who registered the 
contract, had his part in the gloomy combination, 
and seemed anxious to engraft on his ill-favoured 
visage a scion from the stem of his superior’s 
disdain; while the ragged clerk, who affixed the 
seal of office, strove to redouble the reflections of 
authority in his gruff and greasy countenance, 
and stamped the arms of the town with an 
energy so startling, as to tell that an unmuttered 
imprecation lent its impulse to the act. 


Every thing was blank and joyless. The 


112 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


looks of de Monigny depicted none of the fervid 
earnestness of expectant love, and Agnes was the 
living illustration of misery. St. Croix and 
Eugenie felt the infection, and no congratulatory 
embrace echoed round the wide and silent cham- 
ber. The party walked away; nor did the 
hallowed solemnities of religion follow the cele- 
bration of the civil ceremony, which was all that 
the law required. They were one, it was enough. 
They returned to the house of St. Croix, and the 
morrow ushered in no sounds of merriment, nor 
shone upon a face of new-born rapture. 
Declining the longer participation of St. 
Croix’s residence, the new-married couple re- 
moved the fcllowing day to a little cottage on 
his grounds, hastily fitted up for their recep- 
tion. Cheerless and sad, it contained nothing 
by which the residence of the newly-married 
may be almost invariably recognized. If ele- 
gance be wanting, or even the necessary comforts 
of life, there is at least, with scarcely an excep- 
tion, in the homeliest hut where wedded love 


first settles, a glow of genial kind; a breathing 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 113 


of indifference to worldly cares; a heaven of 
blithe enjoyment which defies both poverty and 
ill-fate. But if one exception ever did exist 
to this generally blessed lot, it was now, in the 
hopeless home of Agnes and her husband. 

It was summer; and the unsheltered cot 
received the angry beams of the sun without 
any respite or relief: the hard earthen floor, 
the rough and unpainted walls, the scanty fur- 
niture, one ignorant, uncivilized attendant, all 
threw an air of utter wretchedness around, and 
*‘ MISERY” seemed written on the walls. Some 
of the kind-hearted neighbours, by presents, 
added to the bountiful supplies of St. Croix and 
Eugenie, would have rendered this hopeless 
situation more tolerable; but they were all 
rejected with a pride that seemed to spring 
from bitterness of soul. Even the friendly 
visits of the few who still would cling to the 
unfortunate were declined; and none admitted, 
with the sole exception of.the physician, the 
old and tried friend of the family. The pre- 
sence of.even Eugenie and St. Croix appeared 
at first unwelcome, and was in a little time 

VOL. I. I 


114 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


wholly refused; while the frequent efforts of 
Madame Le Vasseur and her other children to 
see the unhappy Agnes were all in vain. 

The mystery hanging over this resolute and 
unmitigated seclusion at length determined the 
anxious mother to gain an entrance by strata- 
gem; and accordingly one night, when dark- 
ness and rain left her approach less than ever 
suspected, she hastened towards the cottage of 
de Monigny attended by St. Croix. Eugenie, 
being in expectation of soon becoming again a 
mother, could not venture to join the party. 

Just four months had now elapsed from the 
day of Agnes’ marriage; and her mother had 
for some weeks abandoned her oft-repeated so- 
licitations for admission. Her agitation on ap- 
proaching the bleak and lonely habitation be- 
came extreme. She thought of her own home 
comforts, and the comparative elegancies which 
surrounded Eugenie. She asked herself which 
of the sisters was most worthy ; and the bitter- 
ness of self-answering recollections quite over- 
powered her. She wept aloud, and was led on 
unresisting, by the guidance of St. Croix, en- 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 115 


deavouring to stifle the audible expression of 
her distress. As they came close to the house, 
the low murmuring of voices from within made 
them pause for a moment, and they saw, through 
the half-opened shutters of the little parlour 
window, the hapless owners of this mansion of 
misery. They were seated at a coarse and 
rustic table: a solitary lamp, placed upon the 
chimney, threw its melancholy beam upon the 
wan and hollow countenances of Agnes and de 
Monigny. The former was busily employed 
at needle-work, and her husband, with looks of 
compassionate meaning, seemed striving to give 
her comfort. 

Madame Le Vasseur could gaze no longer. 
She raised the latch of the door,—for no pre- 
cautions close the houses of these remote and 
secluded parts: but if robbers did infest the 
country, there was little temptation for their at- 
tacks in the scanty possessions of de Monigny. 
The sudden opening of the door made him now 
start from his chair, and when he recognized 
the intruders, a flush of anger rose upon his pal- 
lid cheek; but he suppressed his emotion and 

12 


116 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


turned to Agnes, who, in the first movement of 
surprise, and unguarded affection, advanced to 
embrace her mother. But Madame Le Vasseur 
for a moment shrunk back. A thousand con- 
flicting sensations rushed at once across her 
mind, for as her eye caught the self-betraying 
form of Agnes, she saw with a glance that she 
was in the most advanced state of pregnancy. 
The recollection of her situation came like 
lightning to the memory of Agnes. She made 
an effort to fold her robe around her; and as 
the first astonished pang of Madame Le Vas- 
seur subsided, and as she was hurrying forward 
to meet the proffered embrace of her daughter, 
the returning consciousness of the latter made 
her sink with empty arms into her chair. 

The remainder of the interview may be better 
imagined than described. ‘The astonished St. 
Croix hastened back to convey the unexpected 
news to Eugenie; while Madame Le Vasseur 
spent the remainder of the night in assurances 
of forgiveness, and many a common-place, 
though heartfelt condolence, quite lost on the 


despairing listener. 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. {17 


The dawning of a heavy morning brought no 
gleam of hope to the afflicted group, but it 
showed more plainly to the mother the. ravages 
which a little time had made in her once beauti- 
ful and blooming child. Her anguish was al- 
most insupportable ; and she saw that she but 
added to the distress of Agnes, who seemed 
overpowered and bent down under the con- 
viction that her futher’s curse awaited his dis- 
covery of her situation. With this feeling she 
implored her mother to keep the secret from 
him, and to give her a chance of dying un- 
betrayed. She uttered no reproach against 
him, nor did she shelter her offence with the 
plea which his obstinate opposition might have 
given her, even when confessing to her mother, 
that the day of his resolute unkindness, on dis- 
covering her attachment, was that in which the 
despair of Monigny and herself led to the fatal 
forgetfulness of his duty, and the fall of her 
honour. But she now looked upon the past 
without pain, and mechanically made prepara- 
tions for the future; while her whole powers of 
thought and feeling were concentrated in the 


118 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


dread of that malediction, which once riveted 
her to the earth, although launched against 
another. 

Her mother, to quiet her fears, told her that 
she would be discreet; and, assuring her that 
her secret should be safe from her father, she 
left her somewhat more composed. On the 
return of Madame Le Vasseur to St. Croix’s, 
however, she, in concert with them, agreed to 
make every thing known to her husband. They 
unanimously thought, that much was to be ex- 
pected from his natural tenderness upon his 
hearing the truth of Agnes’s suffering, and from 
the strong affection towards her, which was best 
evinced by his wretchedness ever since the fatal 
hour in which he drove her from his bosom. 
Full of the most benevolent hopes, they hastened 
to his house; and without formal or settled 
plan, the intelligence burst from them, in an 
united disclosure, which none of them could 
have made individually, but which they trusted 
he could not thus withstand the force of. 

Le Vasseur heard them in silence. A smile 
was curling his lip. They thought it incredulity, 


THE FATHER'S CURSE. 119 


but it was despair! His hands trembled, his 
colour went and came, he sunk back in his chair, 
burst into a fit of loud hysterical laughter, and 
would have gone mad, had he not had relief in 
a passionate flood of tears. They were the first 
he had shed for many a day. When he came 
a little to himself he motioned to the door, and 
there was an awful dignity in his gesture which 
commanded immediate obedience. They left 
him ; and in less than ten minutes they saw a 
servant leave the court-yard on horseback, at 
full speed, with a letter in his hand. 

With that wilful deception which the most 
desperate cases cannot conquer, Madame Le 
Vasseur, Eugenie, and even St. Croix, felt con- 
vinced that the letter contained the pardon of 
Agnes. They proceeded once more to Le Vas- 
seur’s study, in half-satisfied anxiety that their 
belief would be confirmed. They were admitted. 
Le Vasseur was sitting in his chair, calm and 
unimpassioned. ‘They ardently inquired what 
were the contents of his letter. Suddenly start- 
ing up, with a look of phrensy, and a tone of 


fearful energy, he cried, “my curse !” 


ened 
PhS) 
<=) 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


Some hours after Madame Le Vasseur had 
quitted Agnes in the morning, the effects of 
the sudden and long protracted agitation be- 
came apparent in the latter. She felt every 
symptom of approaching delivery, and her hus- 
band hastened off to the town, which was at 
some distance, where resided the physician, 
who, being in her confidence throughout, ex- 
pected the summons. Hardly had de Monigny 
lost sight of his dwelling, when the servant 
bearing Le Vasseur’s letter arrived. ‘The ig- 
norant girl who had the care of her mistress 
immediately handed her the letter; and Agnes, 
recognizing her father’s writing, opened it with 
the eagerness of hope. She forgot for a mo- 
ment her pains, and lost all sense of suffering 
in the magic of expectation. Her eye ran 
quickly over the few lines contained in the bil- 
let, when the horror-struck servant saw her sink 
back in the bed, uttering a piercing scream, the 
herald of a fit of violent convulsion. Shrieks of 
maniac wildness, the voice of mingled agony 
and delirium, burst loudly from her, and ceased 


but with one fierce and closing spasm, which, at 


THE FATHER’S CURSE. 121 


one and the same moment, gave birth to a fine 
female child, and broke the heart of the ill-fated 
mother! 

As de Monigny returned towards home, ac- 
companied by the doctor, they heard the terrific 
accents. As they neared the house, the shriek 
was hushed ; and when they entered, Agnes was 
quite dead. The distracted servant, who stood 
by her side, did not think of going out to meet 
the husband’s approach ; and as he rushed into 
the room, breathless and abrupt, such was the 
spectacle which met his sight. 

The following evening Agnes was privately 
buried in the neighbouring cemetery, her hand, 
even in the grave, grasping the fatal letter 
which was the warrant of her death, and which 
had been in vain attempted to be taken from it. 
St. Croix and her younger brothers followed 
her to the grave. ‘The eldest fled from his 
father’s house, overwhelmed by the double 
shame which had fallen on his family, and the 
infatuated severity which had perpetuated its 
disgrace. Eugenie was dreadfully shocked on 


learning her sister’s fate; but the fears were 


122 THE FATHER’S CURSE. 


exaggerated of those who thought the intelli- 
gence would have endangered her safety. 

The infant was alive and well at the time I 
heard these particulars, and had not to that 
day received a morsel of nourishment, except 
from the hands of its inconsolable father. 


LA VILAINE TETE. 


“They who, by accident, have some inevitable and 
indelible mark on their persons, if they want not virtue, 
generally prove fortunate.” 

Lorp Bacon. 


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Ba ak a EM Uta id cdi it 

OTA HO Ee 


LA VILAINE TETE. 


CHAPTER I. 


I Took a boat on the Garonne, in the fall 
of the year, that treacherous season, when the 
varying tints of the foliage, like the hectic flush 
of consumption, make us forget the decay of 
nature, while admiring its loveliness. I sailed 
down the river as far as Pauilhac, a little port 
some leagues from its mouth; a kind of halting- 
place for vessels bound to Bordeaux, as Graves- 
end is to London. 

The views on this part of the Garonne are 
fine, but can be scarcely called picturesque. 
The stream is too wide, its banks not high 
enough, and the country beyond too flat to en- 
title the landscape to that epithet so dear to 
travellers. But there are some interesting 
points: Lormont, for example, a village on the 


126 LA VILAINE TETE. 
right hand, inhabited chiefly by ship-builders, 
as is evident, from the many skeletons and 
newly-finished vessels standing on the stocks. 
A height rises abruptly behind the houses; 
and, being covered with vineyards to the top, 
has, till late in the season, a very cheerful and 
even romantic appearance. Some villages of 
less note; occasional villas belonging to the 
gentry of Bordeaux; the round fort in the 
middle of the river, called, from its shape, Je 
paté; and the towns of Bourg and Blaye, with 
the citadel of the latter, are the other stationary 
objects which attract attention. Then you have 
the ships scudding up or down the river; all 
sails set, and all hearts joyous, if the wind is 
fair; tacking and labouring, should it be foul. 
An occasional steam-boat is seen, plodding 
along like a Dutch merchant, enveloped in 
smoke, and turning neither to right nor left; 
while many little fishing smacks and pilot boats 
dance gaily on the waves, and plunge their 
prows through the spray. 

I have not, perhaps, done justice to the 
beauties of the Garonne; but it must be re- 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 197 


membered that I paint it below Bordeaux, as it 
_ appears to a man coming down the country, his 
mind filled with the inspiration of much finer 
scenes. Sailing wp the river, after a voyage of 
some weeks, the impressions it excites are far 
different. I know this by experience; for I 
well recollect, that after the tedium of the sea, 
and the tossing of the Bay of Biscay, in one of 
its angriest moods, I thought the light-house of 
Cordouan the model of architecture, the bleak 
sands at the river’s mouth the perfection of 
rural loveliness, and every spot as we ascended 
a little isolated Eden. 

I need not tell my readers that the confluence 
of the Garonne and the Dordogne, just above 
Blaye, forms the Gironde, an extensive estuary, 
with all the attributes of the sea. A few leagues 
below this junction of the rivers I stepped out 
of the boat on the beach of Pauilhac, followed 
by Ranger, and accompanied by the ennui oc- 
casioned by my four hours’ lazy voyage. 

In visiting Medoc, I meant—the phrase is 
admissible from a sportsman—to kill two birds 
with one stone ; viz. to see the principal growths 


128 LA VILAINE TETE. 


of those wines so palatable to us under the name 
of claret, and to enjoy two or three days’ good 
shooting, which had been promised to me by a 
Bordeaux friend. But man is himself no better 
than the sport of chance and circumstance, and 
his most settled purposes are often, like scat- 
tered covies, disturbed and routed by feelings 
beyond their control, and which worry them 
without leave or licence. ‘The morning after 
my arrival at Pauilhac, the glimpse of one old 
chateau was sufficient to drive both my pur- 
poses totally out of my head. 

Having risen early, and taken to the road, 
I was proceeding towards the grounds of my 
friend, when this before-mentioned chateau ly- 
-ing in my path, I inquired of an old peasant the 
name of its owner. Stopping for a moment from 
his work of hedge-cutting, he turned round and 
answered, “’The Marchioness de la Roche- 
Jacquelin.”’ 

“Indeed!” cried I, “is she here, then?” 
“Here! every body, who knows any thing of 
the marchioness, knows that she’s -at Paris,” 
replied he, astonished, it would seem, at my 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 129 


local ignorance, and in a tone of reproof, which 
seemed to accuse me of having insinuated an 
acquaintance to which I had not the slightest 
pretension. 

* Indeed, my friend,” returned I, “ I do know 
a great deal of the marchioness, although I 
never saw her, and was not aware of her re- 
sidence.” 

Our conversation ended here; and, wishing 
him a good morning, I walked towards the next 
village. A full tide of thought was rushing on 
my brain, and the name which had been just 
mentioned to me opened every sluice of me- 
mory. My whole mind was filled with the 
remembrance of La Vendée, so chastely and 
beautifully illustrated in the work of that in 
teresting woman, whose property I now trod 
on. It was a situation fit to recal the emotions 
which I had so often experienced in La Vendée 
itself—that ground once eminent, and always 
sacred—and I felt my pulse swell, and my bosom 
throb, as they were wont to do, while standing 
on the spot immortalized by some glorious ac- 
tion, I paid my homage to heroism in its own 

VOL. I. K 


r, A 
130 LA VILAINE TETE. 


peculiar sanctuary. This is to me of all parts 
of France the most interesting: it is full of 
associations of the most inspiring nature; it 
awakens every thing lying dormant inthe mind 
that bears relationship to valour or to virtue; 
it breathes an air of sympathy and sorrow into 
the heart, and arouses at once recollections of 
heroic devotion, and indignation for the ruin of 
this its noblest temple. 

La Vendée, despoiled and desolated, is no 
longer what it was. The face of nature is not 
changed, but the movements which were wont 
to light up its features are gone by. The 
thickly-wooded landscape is the same as ever ; 
the verdant mass of foliage, the gushing rivu- 
lets, the rising hillocks, the scattered villages, 
still show themselves. Isolated chateaux raise 
here and there their red-tiled roofs above the 
aged oaks; and many a blackened wall shows 
you where others stood, and what destroyed 
them. Man, too, is there: in fact, the district 
still exists, in all the visible signs of life; but 
the fine soul of its inspiration is no more. The 
mild, yet hardy nature of the people, is not 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 131 


quite changed ; they are still hospitable, bene- 
ficent, and brave; their cottages and their 
hearts are open to the stranger; they share 
with him their humble fare, and the fulness 
of their sorrows—but they are a broken-down 
race. Their courage shines out on a sudden 
impulse or unexpected excitement ; but the na- 
tural tone of former intrepidity has died away in 
the artificial efforts which tyranny foreed from 
them. The quickening impulse of domestic 
example has long ceased to animate the pea- 
sants of La Vendée. They see no more the 
lords of their idolatry living among them in the 
fellowship of honourable association, holding 
out the arm of power to cherish, not to crush, 
their followers; giving notions of right, not by 
precept, but by action; teaching religion, not 
by persecution, but by piety ; endearing peace, 
by deeds of quiet virtue; and leading to battle 
by such spirit-stirring words as these: “If I 
advance, follow me; if I shrink back, kill me; 


if I die, revenge me * !” 


* Henri de la Roche-Jacquelin. 


K 2 


A 
132 LA VILAINE TETE. 


Such was the oft-indulged train of thought 
that came revived and fresh upon me as I now 
walked up to the rustic inn, whose designation 
was a withered branch of fir-tree, stuck in the 
wall, and a roughly-coloured print below it, 
representing a couple of jolly fellows sitting, 
glasses in hand, beside a huge crimson bottle, 
which shot forth a cloud of blue froth. ‘* Good 
March beer,” in large letters at the foot, was 
the key to this hieroglyphic, and a signal of 
invitation to the thirsty passenger. Sure of a 
welcome in the common home of every wan- 
derer with sixpence in his pocket, I entered 
the house, and asked if I could have a bed for 
the night. A little hesitation on the part of 
the host, a few frivolous questions about my 
passport from the landlady, and some sly looks 
of mingled suspicion and coquetry from her 
chubby and sun-burnt daughter, all ended in 
the grant of my demand, and in my instalment 
in a snug little room looking out upon the gar- 
den. Being fairly in possession, [ bethought 
myself of a very important and oft-required as- 
sistant in the arrangements of all men, but par- 


A < 
LA VILAINE TETE. 133 


ticularly of those who carry their wardrobe on 
their shoulders—I mean a washerwoman. 

“O yes, sir,” said the landlord’s daughter, 
“to be sure, there’s a washerwoman in the vil- 
lage.—Shall I run and look for her 2?” 

“If you please, after you have given me my 
breakfast.” 

The washerwoman came in consequence ; 
and, as I offered her a glass of wine from my 
bottle, she thanked me with an accent which I 
knew at once to be Vendéan. “ What, you too 
are from La Vendée!” exclaimed I. “Alas! 
yes, sir,” said she, “many a long day; though 
I seem to bear the token marked on my tongue 
She 
here wiped a tear from her eye. ‘The poor 


as firmly as it is stamped in my heart.” 


woman had a very ill-favoured countenance ; 
and as to the rest of her person, I can only 
say with Milton, that she had “fit body to fit 
head ;” thus affording another proof that pro- 
portion may be prejudicial to the cause of 
beauty. 

Her birth-place was, however, enough to en- 


sure her my regard. We entered deeply into 


A 
134 LA VILAINE TETE. 


chat; and, in return to my many questions about 
the circumstances of the celebrated Madame de 
la Roche-Jacquelin and her family, she gave 
me much information. This, though interesting 
to the sensitive or curious reader, being of pri- 
vate and existing individuals, I do not feel my- 
self warranted, by any example, to make public. 

Our conversation insensibly turned on tales 
of La Vendée; and half a day was thus spent 
before the old washerwoman bundled up my 
little packet of two shirts, two pair of. 


psha ! 
no matter—and bade me good evening. My 
mind was full of the subject; and forgetting, 
for that night, both vineyards and partridges, 
I sketched the following ¢rue story, which, at 
my leisure, I put into its present form. 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 135 


CHAPTER II. 


THERE is no truth more obvious than that 
vicious times afford the best field for the display 
of virtue; and never was the axiom more fully 
exemplified than during the progress of the 
French Revolution. Many people find it hard 
to mingle notions of virtue with the memory of 
that event ; yet gratitude, humanity, and honour 
were never more frequent—because so many 
opportunities for their exertion have been rarely 
ever afforded. Such qualities as these are best 
understood by contrast; and, in fact, require 
the display of their opposites to bring them 
into action. Bad passions and bad men obtrude 
themselves upon us: the good must be called 
forth to be observed. Evil forms the fore- 
ground of the social picture, but brings out, 
rather than conceals, the amiable and, mild 
perspective. The country, and the period in 
question, formed the mighty frame-work of this 
moral exhibition ; and it wasin La Vendée that 


A 
136 LA VILAINE TETE. 


human nature appeared abstractedly the worst. 
It was there, too, that more instances of virtue 
occurred than in any other part. There the 
most hateful passions were let loose: French- 
man warred against Frenchman; the son bat- 
tled against the father; brother was opposed 
to brother: yet there it was, amidst rapine, 
hatred, and revenge, that all! the finer feelings 
of the heart were seen to flourish ; 


** Not in the sunshine and the smiles of Heaven, 

But wrapp’d in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes.” 

In this isolated region resistance to the re- 
volutionary spirit was not caused by feelings of 
a political nature. ‘hey were strictly private, — 
and therefore more pure. It was not that the 
Vendéans wished to uphold the prerogatives of 
the crown, or the errors of the court. They 
were unconnected with the one, and ignorant 
of the other. The name of king excited in 
them feelings of endearment only as it was con- 
nected with the nobility, under whom they lived 
and thrived. Had these flung away their pri- 
vileges and titles, the peasants would have been 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 137 


as willingly republicansas royalists. Their hardy 
and unsophisticated minds cared nothing for 
distinctions. They were happy ; they had every 
right which they required ; and felt that attach- 
ment which free-born gratitude inspires. They 
took arms to protect their lords from injury, 
and their altars from pollution. Loyalty and 
religion were blended with the more domestic 
feelings; and the only ill they feared was the re- 
moval of that authority which elsewhere meant 
abuse, but was to them protection. It is this 
which sanctifies their struggles. Had the me- 
mory of their bravery and their misfortunes 
come to us merely as intrepid assertors of po- 
litical rights, we should have felt for them all 
the admiration and regret which is due to un- 
successful courage. But the warriors of La 
Vendée take hold of our sympathies by ten- 
derer, and even stronger ties. In the soldier 
we see also the husband and the father. No 
cold-blooded mercenaries come to claim our 
compassion, but ardent patriots to command it. 
We view them in all the energy of home de- 


votion—in all the softness of fire-side endear- 


A 
* 188 LA VILAINE TETE. 


ment—in the strenuous exercise of domestic 
honour. Not rushing on from the impulse of 
unmeaning ambition, but rallying round their 
brave commanders with all the warmth of family 
regard; and fighting with them side by side 
upon their native fields, at once the cradle of 
their blessings and the sepulchre of their woes. 

The events of the Vendéan wars abound 
with incidents of deep, but sorrowful interest. 
The fortunes and fate of the rebel leaders most 
naturally attract our attention; but the suffer- 
ing was so general, there was such a perfect 
equality of wretchedness, that we cannot gaze 
upon the devotion of the chief without mingiing 
our regards with that of his followers. Did I 
choose to work on high-wrought feelings; did 
{ want a hero of romantic endowment or won- 
derous feats, they are to be had in rich abund- 
ance; but such was not my object: I chose a 
simpler theme and humbler actors, abandoning 
for truth all views of exaltation. 

In the heart of that part of this devoted pro- 
vince, called Le Bocage, stood a retired strag- 


gling village, contaiming about twenty houses; 


\ 


LA VILAINE TETE. 139 


but these were so irregularly scattered, that 
they occupied a surface which might have suf- 
ficed for ten times the number. This village 
was far away from any high road; and, being 
skirted by impenetrable woods, and surrounded 
by rising grounds, it is impossible to imagine a 
more complete seclusion. The humble com- 
munity by which it was occupied were ignorant 
of the world, and did not wish for worldly know- 
ledge. Their pastor, a mild and amiable man, 
assured them that he had voluntarily renounced 
it, and that the votaries of fashion held a lot 
less happy than theirs. The seigneur, who 
lived in the chateau close at hand, was another 
practical example of the curate’s veracity; for 
he also had for many years abandoned the plea- 
sures of high life, and lived among his peasan- 
try, more like a father than a master. ‘These 
two authorities were all in ali with the honest 
creatures whom they governed, and with a sway 
so gentle, that this influence was but their due. 
Nothing was more reciprocally amiable than 
the intercourse between these poor people, their 
pastor, and their lord. In each gradation there 


A 


140 LA VILAINE TETE. 


was, to be sure, a variety of feeling; but it har- 
monized so well together, that it would be hard 
to point out the distinctions. ; 

The church was a lowly edifice, suiting the 
humility of the teacher and his flock. The 
simple altar, and unornamented walls, formed a 
striking contrast with the gorgeousness of me- 
tropolitan embellishment ; and, notwithstanding 
all that I have heard of “the majesty of reli- 
gion,” and the “ magnificence of worship,” I 
doubt whether the gilding and polishing of a 
Roman or Parisian temple ever reflected a con- 
gregation more devout than that which filled 
this modest sanctuary. —But nothing like fana- 
ticism was known among them. They did their 
duty too well to have leisure for excesses; guilt 
rarely sullied the round of their occupations. 
The worthy curate often wept over the sorrows 
to which all, alas! are subject; but he as often 
smiled at the innocent eagerness with which his 
parishioners would labour to convict themselves 
of crime. Their confessions were frequent; 
their penances slight ; and their absolution safely 


conceded. They were, however, as gay as they 


\ 
LA VILAINE TETE. 14] 


were pious, and as fond of dancing as of prayer. 
They never neglected their devotions, or forgot 
their pleasures. The grass plat before the little 
church was the scene of their Sunday festivities ; 
and probably neither religion nor recreation 
was the worse for this affinity. The good priest 
presided almost as regularly at the one as the 
other. Reclined in the shade of a group of 
elms, as old as the ivy-covered walls of the 
church itself, his smiles gave a sanction to the 
pleasures on which he gazed. The village con- 
tained three or four musicians; and the rustic 
concert often charmed to the spot the seigneur 
_andhis family, with any occasional guest who hap- 
pened to be at the chateau. There was among 
the inhabitants an equality purely republican ; 
but they were unruffled by those dreams of 
vanity and ambition, to which even republicans 
are subject. They were all alike poor, indus- 
trious, well-disposed, and happy.—'’o trace the 
portrait of one family would be to give the 
picture of all. 

The cottages, too, were nearly all alike; but 
one was pre-eminent above the rest for the pe- 


A 
142 LA VILAINE TETE. 


culiar beauty of its situation and its neatness. 
A French cottage, even now, when the political 
condition of the peasantry is so much improved, 
brings no idea of outward comfort to the mind. 
At the period in question its claims were still 
less; and in our village external slovenliness 
and dirt were as much apparent as in any other. 
But one habitation formed a pleasing exception 
to this general reproach. It stood apart from 
the others, on the banks of a rivulet which ran 
between the village and the wood. It was sur- 
rounded bya small garden, kept neat and bloom- 
ing. The walls were covered with creeping 
shrubs; and flowering plants were placed 
around, carefully cherished in winter, and in 
summer fantastically arranged on benches built 
against the cottage. The well, sunk, as is 
usual, in the middle of the garden, and front of 
the house, showed nothing of naked deformity 
or uncouth ornament. Its wall, rising about 
three feet from the ground, was surrounded by 
a little hedge of myrtle and rose-trees, which, 
in the season of bloom and beauty, showed a 
profusion of gay flowers. A couple of vines 


LA VILAINE TETE. 143 


were trained along the front of the cottage, 
and their stems carefully preserved by a wooden 
covering nailed round them. Every thing 
within was in unison with the simple neatness 
without. The room, which served as kitchen 
and parlour, was furnished scantily, but clean- 
lily. ‘The copper vessels shone bright on the 
walls, and the table and chairs were white from 
regular and careful scouring. The sleeping 
apartment had a comfortable bed ; a small closet 
adjoining the kitchen held another; and a 
couple of presses were well stocked with coarse 
but wholesome linen, a luxury enjoyed by the 
French peasants to what we might think excess. 

The owner of this humble yet enviable man- 
sion was an old woman, bent down with age 
and infirmity. Her whole stay and solace in 
the world was her grandaughter, whom she 
had brought up—an orphan from the cradle. 
This poor girl was every thing that she could 
desire, except in one respect; and possessed 
all that her situation required, but one ad- 
vantage, with which, it must be confessed, there 
are few who can well entirely dispense. Jean- 


144, LA VILAINE TETE. 


nette was amiable, cheerful, tender-hearted; a 
good spinner, active in household affairs, and 
pious; but beauty formed no part of her pos- 
sessions; for she was in appearance ugly—not 
simply plain, but downright ugly. This utter 
absence of personal advantages had procured 
her among the neighbours the title of “ a vilaine 
téte.” To let the reader judge whether or not 
exaggeration had suggested this epithet, the 
following portrait is given; and coming from a 
friendly hand, its truth may be relied on. 
Jeannette was—but the pen refuses to pro- 
ceed! It is, in truth, but an ungracious task, 
and cannot be persevered in. How different — 
are the efforts to depict the traits of beauty! 
There is, indeed, enjoyment indwelling on their 
memory: in essaying, however vainly, to com- 
mit to paper with pen or pencil the impressions 
they stamp upon the mind: in striving to trace 
out those indelible, yet shadowy recollections, 
which flit before the fancy so fairy-like, so 
lovely, so evanescent; inspiring to pursuit, yet 
baffling every effort at detention. How I have 
laboured at this hopeless task! How strove to 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE, 145 


do justice by description to that face and form 
which are ever before my eyes! How, while I 
thought to fashion out one feature, has the me- 
mory of another swam upon my brain, con- 
founding all in an overflow of blending loveli- 
ness! Even now, they seem to float before my 
gaze in the unfading sweetness which needs no 
contrast to increase it, which time and distance 
purify, but weaken not. But—but to return 
to my heroine; that is, to poor Jeannette. 
There are cases where ’tis best to leave the 
reader to himself; and this is one. Imagination 
may complete the portrait I would have com- 
menced, without fearing to err by extravagance: 
let it paint her ever so unprepossessing in ap- 
pearance, and it cannot go too far. 

Jeannette, unlike most people, cared but 
little for that which she did not possess; and 
was rather disposed to dwell upon those com- 
pensations which nature had given her. She 
knew that she was ugly—very ugly—but she 
felt that she was strong and healthy, and her 
composure was not ruffled. Her grandmother's 


cottage contained but little looking-glass to 
VOL. I. L 


A 


146 LA VILAINE TETE. 


throw reflections on her defect, and the neigh- 
bours were too good-natured to supply so un- 
kind an office. I really believe that she thought 
so seldom of her face, and heard so little to 
make her remember it, that she only knew of 
its peculiarities from the faithful but officious 
brook in which she was accustomed to wash the 
linen of the cottage, and that of the neighbour- 
ing chateau, confided to her care. 'This was her 
chief employment, and, taking pride in doing it 
well, she was early distinguished as the best 
savonneuse in the village, and her own and her 
grandmother’s caps and kerchiefs were by far 
the most conspicuous for their whiteness and» 
getting up. This early accomplishment turned 
afterwards, as we shall see, to good account. 
Jeannette, it will be easily believed, dreamt 
not of love or marriage. She certainly was 
never tempted to one nor the other. But some- 
how she never wanted a partner at a dance; 
her garden, in which she had such pride, was 
cultivated by the voluntary labours of the village 
lads; did any thing go wrong in the cottage, 
she was sure of the gratuitous aid of some 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 147 


rustic mechanic ; and on her jour de féte none of 
the girls around could show more of those in- 
’ teresting, though homely, tokens which affec- 
tion presents to worth. Such is the power of 
virtue, and such the value in which the French 
peasants hold it, that Jeannette never knew 
what it was to be slighted or forgotten. It is 
true she was called la vilaine téte, but nick- 
names in rustic society are by no means tokens 
of ill-nature. A joke is there given and taken, 
as it ought to be every where, in good part; 
and the bitter sarcasms of good-breeding find 
no place in the unrefined enjoyments of country 
life. Jeannette bore her designation with great 
good humour, and custom quite reconciled her 
to it. She knew it was very just, and therefore 
was satisfied that she had no right to complain, 
truth being, by persons of her rank in life, 
seldom or never disguised. But she had an- 
other appellation, which might have consoled 
a more sensitive mind—that was, “'The good 
Jeannette.” This was just as involuntary as 
the other, and not a bit more sophistical; for 
she was, to reverse a common expression, “as 
L2 


A 
148 LA VILAINE TETE. 


good as she was ugly,”—and that is saying a 
great deal. Whenever a child was ill, or an 
old woman complaining, or if an accident hap- 
pened to man or beast, Jeannette was ever one 
of the first to offer her assistance, and the last 
to discontinue it. She had also the great ad- 
vantage of depriving envy of its sting; for, was 
one of her female companions ever so plain, 
she had a consolation in looking at Jeannette ; 
and, was she ever so wretched, a comfort in 
listening to her. Her advice was sought for 
by her friends in all emergencies; and, what 
was more wonderful, it was almost as certain to 
be taken as asked. ‘To make matters short, 
and tell a plain fact in few words, she had the 
blessings of the whole village, old and young. 
Thus might she have run the quiet tenor of 
her way, and gone in happy obscurity down the 
stream of life, had not the public events which 
agitated her country forced her from her re- 
treat. It may be a question whether or not she 
merits immortality. Even if she does, these 
pages do not hope to secure her that reward. 
Jeannette was exactly eighteen years of age 


a 


LA VILAINE TETE. 149 


when the village tranquillity was first disturbed 
by the sound of the tocsin of war. Alas! how 
wofully did that sound break over the stillness 
of the gentle night, to the ears of those who 
knew of what it was the signals Jeannette was 
not one of those. She and her young com- 
panions had heard much of previous events. 
Every day was hot with accounts of distant 
movements and alarms; but in the gaiety of 
youth they believed that such disturbance could 
never come home to them, and they had no 
notion of the horrors they were so soon to 
witness. Jeannette was in bed, and on the first 
sound of the alarm-bell hurried on her clothes, 
and looked from the lattice to ascertain the 
quarter of the fire, supposing such to be the 
cause of the summons. She looked out, but 
all was darkness. No flame coloured the clouds 
which rolled heavily above, nor tinged the trees 
whose foliage overhung the cottage. The air 
was impervious to her inquiring gaze, and the 
low-breathing wind was scarcely strong enough 
to rustle the leaves around. This unusual re- 
pose of nature looked like the sleep of death. . 


‘ 


150 LA VILAINE TETE. 


Jeannette listened to the bell with a dread 
which no visible danger could have inspired ; 
and she shuddered without knowing why. At 
length murmuring voices came upon the air, 
and a drum was loudly beaten. Shouts of 
assembling men were soon distinguished, and 
then the firing of distant musketry. Jeannette 
trembled in every joint, and stole from the 
closet where she slept, intending to pass softly 
through the garden, to demand at the next 
cottage the meaning of such awful sounds. She 
entered the kitchen, and was surprised to hear 
whisperings in her grandmother’s apartment, 
and opening the door she distinguished by the ~~ 
glimmering of the little lamp, half-shaded to 
conceal the light, the old woman and two of her 
neighbours on their knees devoutly joined in 
prayer. The entrance of Jeannette made them 
start up in alarm; while she, terrified at their 
solemn and fear-stricken looks, flung herself 
into her grandmother’s arms, and burst into 
tears. 

When their agitation had subsided, Jeannette 
resolved on going out into the road which 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE, 151 


passed before the garden, and connected the 
irregular and scattered cottages. She learned 
enough, from her grandmother’s melancholy 
visitors, to know that the alarm without pro- 
ceeded from the union of the villagers and the 
neighbouring peasants, brought together by 
the determination of the seigneur and the curé ; 
who, tired of forbearance, had at length re- 
solved on rousing the parish to the aid of the 
more forward opponents of the Revolution. 
Jeannette resolved to go into the road and 
view the passing scene. She did so, but a com- 
parative tranquillity had succeeded the recent 
tumult. Nothing was to be distinguished, but 
she trod on well-known ground; and, following 
the murmur of retiring voices, she soon reached 
the hillock upon which the church was built. 
The great entrance was open; and, to the 
astonishment of our heroine, a stream of light 
issued from it, flinging a wild and solemn glare 
upon the tall elms planted around. The pitchy 
darkness of the night made the contrast more 
striking, and the sighing of the increasing 
breeze in the viewless branches seemed the 


A 
152 LA VILAINE TETE. 


utterance of awful and agitated nature. Scat- 
tered groups of peasants passed now and then 
across the illuminated space just opposite the 
church door, as they emerged from the gloom 
of one side, and with hurried pace, were lost in 
a moment in the darkness of the other. Some 
entered the church; a few stood still im deep 
and anxious conversation—but all were armed. 
Weapons of various kinds were borne by those 
sinewy arms, which grasped with indiscriminate 
vigour whatever could be turned to purposes 
of vengeance. As Jeannette leaned, pale and 
trembling, against a tree, she was startled by 
occasional shots from approaching parties of | 
peasants, and gradually a number of fires were 
lighted on the rising grounds in the vicinity, 
bursting up in columns of flame and smoke, and 
casting a dark red gleam upon the woods 
below. While Jeannette contemplated, with 
breathless admiration, the impressive scene 
before her, a splitting shout burst from the holy 
edifice. She sprang from the earth at the 
electric sound. It was so unnatural—so demon- 
like, compared to the low murmurings of prayer 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 153 


which were wont to breathe through the conse- 
crated building, that she doubted for a moment 
- the reality of what she heard. But another, of 
still louder and more lengthened tone, brought 
conviction to the agitated listener, who, hurried 
by an uncontrollable impulse, hastened to the 
open door to satisfy her intense and terrified 
curiosity. She stopped awhile under the porch 
which projected beyond the entrance. From 
thence she gazed upon the scene within. A 
mass of people of both sexes filled the body of 
the church. They were standing, and as they 
listened attentively to the discourse of the curé, 
hundreds of bayonets, pikes, and other martial 
instruments, glittered above their heads. The 
altar was lighted up as if for more than a 
common occasion; and on its steps stood the 
selgneur, accoutred in all the irregular array 
of rustic warfare. Beside him was the curé, 
dressed in the full splendor of priestly decora- 
tion. The first was a figure fit for the pencil 
of Salvator Rosa; hardy, inflexible, and firm. 
His careless apparel, flung on with the romantic 
grace of a bandit mountaineer; a leathern belt 


A 
154 LA VILAINE TETE. 


around his waist, its large steel buckle shining 
between the rude carving of two enormous 
pistols; his left hand grasping the hilt of an 
ancient and rusty sword; the other supported 
on the muzzle of a brass barrelled carbine :— 
his black eyes shooting fire, and his deep-knit 
brow garnished by the raven curls which escaped 
from beneath a crimson handkerchief, tied 
tightly round his head*. The priest might 
have been supposed the embodied form of one 
of Raphael’s exquisite imaginings. His whole 
expression calm, inspired, ineffable; his blue 
eyes beaming with a light as if from heaven; 
the graceful drapery of his attire giving ad-— 


* This head-dress, common to the Vendéan chiefs, was 
adopted from their heroic comrade, Henri de la Roche- 
Jacquelin, who was thus first distinguished in the revolu- 
tionary battles. He made himself a mark for the bullets 
of his enemies and the imitation of his friends. ‘‘ Fire at 
the red handkerchief !” was repeatedly cried by the re- 
publicans who witnessed the uncommon valour of its 
wearer. His danger being pointed out to him, made 
Henri persist in what he had first done by chance; and 
to save him from particular risque, all his brave com- 
panions followed his example. See The Memoires of 
Madame de la Roche-Jacquelin. 


A 


LA VILAINE TETE. 155 


ditional height to his tall spare form; his sallow 
cheeks showing, in transparent currency, the 
blood which mantled through them. The sei- 
eneur stood fixed and statue-like, as if motion 
was stopped by the intensity of some determined 
thought. The curé had his hands raised in the 
energy of eloquence, while he harangued his 
ardent congregation. The distance allowed but 
a part of his oration to reach the wondering 
ears of Jeannette. She, however, distinguished 
enough to inform her that he was exciting his 
listeners to battle, and promising them victory. 
In the first instant of surprise she fancied her- 
self the dupe of some illusion; and she sought 
to doubt the identity of those before her. Were 
they not some impudent impostors, dressed in 
masquerade? Could that be the placid seigneur? 
Could that be the meek and merciful preacher 
of forgiveness? Such were the natural doubts 
of the uninformed Jeannette. But it is not 
strange that persecution should arouse the most 
sensitive feelings of the soul, nor that for- 
bearance should be turned to vengeance by the 
hatred of oppression. So it was now with these 


A 
156 LA VILAINE TETE. 


altered associates, who seemed to revive. the 
days of old, when the high priest Joad preached 
revolt against the tyranny of Athalia; or the 
more recent times, when Peter the hermit 
poured forth his irresistible eloquence to the 
warriors of the cross. 

Jeannette listened with a fixed and half-un- 
willing conviction to the discourse of the vene- 
rable ecclesiastic. His words appeared to flow 
from the impulse of inspiration, and at every 
pause reiterated shouts burst from the highly 
excited throng. The skilful orator saw that 
his point was gained. The energy of deep 
devotion was blended with valorous ardour; 
and, while enthusiasm seemed at its height, he 
took from off the altar a fiag of white silk. 
With his face again turned to his audience, he 
waved the snowy banner, in impassioned grace, 
above his head. As it floated round hin, his 
long grey locks were agitated by the air—his 
countenance beamed bright—his whole frame 
was moved with fervid agitation, and he looked 
the semblance of something more than mortal. 
The people gazed on him awhile in reverential 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 157 


silence, waiting for the sounds of his sonorous 
and impressive accents. “ Behold, my chil- 
dren,” he at length said, “the banner of your 
God, your country, and your king!” The 
crowd caught anew the lightning impulse from 
his look, and a loud and long continued cry of 
** God, our country, and our king!” re-echoed 
through the church. ‘“ Let us now consecrate 
this sacred symbol of virtue and of valour!” 
He performed the ceremony with pious fervour. 
When it was finished he spoke once more. 
“Who now volunteers to guard the holy 
banner?” Scarcely had he pronounced the 
question, when a crowd of young men sprang 
over the railing of the altar, and with bran- 
dished swords hurried, in friendly contest, to 
seize upon the flag. The seigneur assisted the 
curé in repressing their zeal, and the former 
exclaimed aloud, “ No, my friends—be this 
honour mine! It is the only distinction I claim 
from you. For the rest, we will march together 
to the combat. We will fight side by side— 
conquer together, or, if it must be so, die. 
Look ever to this symbol of our cause: while 


A 
158 LA VILAINE TETE. 


it floats above me, the path of glory is not 
distant: when it falls to earth—then dig your 
standard-bearer’s grave!” The young aspirants 
yielded to the claim of their chief; spontaneous 
acclamations again arose; the people flung 
themselves into each others’ arms; while the 
clashing of swords, and rolling of drums, formed 
a wild and singular accompaniment to the en- 
thusiasm and harmony of the scene. 

The curé waved his hand. All was still. 
“‘ Raise now your voices to the throne of grace 
—let your artless anthem bear on high the 
prayer of Christians, and the vows of patriots!” 
At these words the rural choir commenced a 
strain of rough and vigorous melody, in which 
the whole assemblage enthusiastically joined. 
The air was. more martial than religious, and 
an unpremeditating pen had hastily adapted to 
it some stanzas which appeared appropriate. 
They were as follow: 


if 
Why linger we here, when the tocsin afar 
Through our villages rings ?—let us on to the war: 
Let us on, ere the false one write shame on our crest, 
To the battle, VenpzEans—our banner is blest! 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 159 


i], 
Proud bearer, whose task is to guard it from stain, 
- Wave high the white symbol, and lead to the plain: 
There be regicide cheeks that shall vie with its white, 
As its tricolor rival sinks down in the fight. 

Ih: 


Let them come when they list, in their rebel array, 
We have hearts for the onset, and swords for the fray : 
For our homes and our altars to vengeance we spring, 
And God shall be with us, for country and king. 


IV. 


Lead on, gallant bearer! high blessing and vow 

Have been breathed on our banner—why linger we now ? 
Our weapons are out, and the scabbards flung by, 

And we swear, by that standard, to conquer or die. 


The effect of this chant, if not its harmony, 
was greatly increased by being joined in by the 
whole assembly. The untutored crash of such 
a strain was stunning, but impressive. When 
the last sounds ceased to reverberate, the curé 
again shortly addressed the crowd. His looks 
were once more changed—his eyes were filled 
with tears. His voice faltered as he pro- 
nounced his parting benediction. His accents 
were those of tenderness and love, such as a 


A 
160 LA VILAINE TETE. 


fond father would utter when separating from a 
favourite child. He had before raised their 
minds to the highest pitch of exaltation, he now 
melted their hearts. He told them to be mer- 
ciful, as he knew they would be brave; and 
laboured to convince them that true courage 
was ever blended with humanity. He then 
cast over them the purifying water, symbolic of 
the holy dew of righteousness ; and finally bade 
them farewell, as, headed by the seigneur, they 
sallied from the church; and the last words 
uttered by his almost exhausted voice were, 
«¢ March firmly, my children—the God of battles 
guides and guards you!” 

The crowd rushed past Jeannette without 
perceiving her, and almost unperceived. Her 
whole attention was riveted on the interesting 
being whose fervid eloquence had chained her 
to the spot. She saw him at last sink down 
upon a bench, as the last stragglers quitted the 
church. Two or three attendants remained 
with him, and with upturned eyes and quivering 
lips he seemed to murmur the remains of an 
unfinished prayer. Jeannette turned towards 


A . 
LA VILAINE TETE. 161 


home, where, she began to recollect, she would 
be anxiously expected. As she descended the 
- sloping ground, she looked around her. The 
signal fires had almost all burned out. Here 
and there an occasional burst of flame told that 
the latest was expiring, and in some places a 
mass of glowing embers relieved the sombre 
shades. As she paused an instant at the foot 
of the hillock, she turned towards the church. 
The door was on the point of being closed, and 
the stream of light shut from her. There was 
no one near—all seemed desolate. The women 
of the village had, together with those who 
followed their husbands and fathers from the 

country, almost all set out in mournful escort to 
~ the departing warriors. A glimmering light 
from a few of the cottages told that old age 
or infirmity kept watch within. As Jeannette 
reached her home, her own little beacon was 
the only perceivable object, and nothing was to 
be heard but the distant trampling of the fast- 
going crowd, and the savage yet thrilling strains 
of their loud-sung chorus. 

But I must pass over the details of this por- 

VOL I. M 


A 


162 LA VILAINE TETE. 


tentous night, nor dwell upon topics of distress, 
so often and so well described. From this mo- 
ment no sounds of joy were heard in the once 
happy village, if we except the shouts of oc- 
casional triumph, resembling tiger-yellings more 
than tones of natural delight. The church bell 
no more rung out for prayers; its tolling now 
announced but blood and battle. The sports 
and labours of the fields were abandoned for 
their fiercer pursuits. ‘Training, exercising, 
marching, occupied the young men in their oc- 
casional relaxations from combat, and the old 
inhabitants had no heart for industry. The 
cheerful Sunday ball no longer called the lasses — 
to its innocent enjoyment. A care-worn ex- 
pression hung on every face, and haggard looks 
gave evidence of sleepless nights and agitated 
hearts. Each day was big with new: events: 
some fresh encounter, some impending danger, 
some hard-earned victory. Many a gallant 
Youth of the village lay unburied on a distant 
battle-field; and others, after every action, re- 
turned to die—wounded, worn down, and muti- 
lated. The women took various parts in these 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 163 


afflicting scenes. They were prohibited from 
following the Vendéan armies, and therefore 
the great body remained, and performed ail the 
duties of guard-mounting and patrolling, like 
experienced soldiers. But many, disguised as 
men, girded on swords and mingled in the 
ranks, leaving their aged parents or their in- 
fants to the care of the feeble or the timorous 
who staid behind. Our heroine was one of the 
latter, for she possessed a tender, and even 
weak, nature; but she was eminently useful in 
the natural occupations of her sex. The church 
had been converted into a hospital, and under 
the directions of the worthy curé, and a sur- 
geon appointed to the charge, it was soon con- 
sidered as one of the chief depéts for the vic- 
tims of war. The principal hospital of La 
Vendée was at St. Laurent, a town on the river 
Sevre, at a considerable distance from our vil- 
lage; and there was the chief rendezvous of 
the Seurs de Charité, that sublime association, 
whose virtues half compensate for the folly or 
the vice of other orders, wearing the semblance 
of religion. Thus deprived of the services of 
M 2 


: 


A 
164 LA VILAINE TETE. 


the sisterhood, the women of the village were 
obliged to supply those offices, to the perform- 
ance of which the former were wholly con- 
secrated. The hearts of the female peasants 
readily prompted them to the arduous under- 
taking; and that knowledge of the simple medi- 
cines of nature, and, above all, that benevolence 
of disposition so general among this class in 
France, fitted them well for the fulfilment of 
such duties. 

The secluded situation of the village spared 
it for some time from the actual presence of 
either army. It lay far from the high-road, 
and was only resorted to for forage or recruits. - 
But soon the wide-spreading force of the Re- 
publican arms drove the gallant warriors of La 
Vendée to the most remote and difficult posi- 
tions. The village became the head-quarters 
of one of the retreating bodies of royalists, and 
presented a scene quite novel to its remaining 
inhabitants. Cannons, baggage-waggons, and 
cavalry, continually moving through the road; 
drums and trumpets ever sounding ; constant pa- 
rades; warlike accoutrements filling every cor- 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 165 


ner and crevice of the cottages; soldiers, if we 
may so call the untrained bands of Vendéans, 
leaning across the doors and windows, sleeping 
on the benches before them, or lounging in 
strange groups at corners. Slaughtering of cattle 
to supply the messes; the gardens trampled on, 
and laid waste by marauders—in short, all the 
bustle and misfortune of an ill-regulated military 
possession. ‘The seigneur was one of those who, 
having escaped death in several desperate en- 
counters, had reached again his own roof, to 
enjoy awhile the scanty repose which anxiety 
allowed him. The general commanding, with his 
staff, was of course lodged in the chateau, and 
the reputation of Jeannette procured her the ap- 
pointment of washerwoman to thewhole establish- 
ment. This gave her ample employment night 
and day, but being well recompensed for her 
trouble, she didnot grudge it; and for some weeks 
she prudently hoarded up all the money she re- 
ceived, to be at hand in case of an emergency. 

The parties which, from time to time, went 
out on scattered expeditions, brought back (but 


not often) occasional prisoners to the village. 


A 


166 LA VILAINE TETE. 


At the general assemblage of the Vendéan ar- 
mies, held some time before at Chollet, it was 
determined that no quarter should be given; 
and the shocking nature of the subsequent con- 
flicts rarely allowed the infringement of the 
order. The few prisoners spared were solely 
for the purpose of obtaining information, and 
these wretches were generally reserved for a 
miserable fate. In relation to them every gentle 
feeling seemed commonly stifled, and a prin- 
ciple of terrible retaliation governed their ex- 
asperated foes. Dragged along, bleeding and 
exhausted, they used to enter the village more 
dead than alive; and, after their examination 
before the chiefs, they were cast into some — 
deserted cottage, or loathsome outhouse, con- 
verted into a prison, often to expire of disease 
and neglect. But many a heart bled silently for 
their sorrows ; compassion even here triumphed 
over the excitement of the darker passions; 
and some of these unfortunates were spared te 
repay their preservers’ bounty, and rescue hu- 
man nature from unlimited reproach. 

One night, as Jeannette was busily employed 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 167 


in preparing some linen, to be delivered at the 
chateau the following day, a gentle knocking at 
the outer door aroused her from her work. She 
raised the latch unhesitatingly, knowing that 
the village was occupied by friends ; but the ob- 
ject which presented itself made her start back 
affrighted, It was a soldier in the Republican 
uniform. He wore the national cockade, but 
no more dangerous symbol of his profession or 
opinions. He was unarmed. His face was pale, 
and an open wound upon his forehead, with the 
clotted blood which had trickled from it, in- 
creased the ghastliness of his hue. One arm 
was bound with a coarse handkerchief, and sup- 
ported by his cravat, converted into a sling. 
He had neither shoes nor stockings. His gar- 
ments were torn in several places, and covered 
with dust and mire. He was altogether a 
miserable figure. He addressed Jeannette in 
a hurried, yet insinuating tone, and entreated 
her to admit him, and shut the door. She did 
so, for there was a something in his lock and 
manner that disarmed her of her fears. ‘The 


stranger was young, and, notwithstanding his 


168 LA VILAINE TETE. 


wretched plight, the indelible traits of beauty 
were stamped upon his countenance. ‘There 
was, too, a touching softness in his voice; and 
his forlorn and perilous condition awoke at once 
that pity, so hard to be distinguished from 
a feeling still more tender. Jeannette was a 
steady royalist, and till now had instinctively 
shuddered with dread at the bare thought of 
a republican; but a sudden chill seemed to 
creep across those loyal antipathies which were 
wont to flow so warmly; and, I fear, I am re- ~ 
duced to the dilemma of confessing the plain 
truth with regard to our poor heroine. Yes, 
the long-stagnant sensibilities of her nature 
were at once let loose—the thousand kind emo- 
tions of her heart, so often lavished in indeter- 
minate yet amiable profusion, were in a moment 
fixed, brought home, concentrated—and she 
experienced all that instant rush of inspiration 
which is defined, most fitly, by the pithy phrase 
of “ Love at first sight.” 

La Coste, for so the stranger named himself, 
shortly informed Jeannette that he was one of 
the enemy that day brought a prisoner to the 


A . 
LA VILAINE TETE. 169 


village from a neighbouring skirmish; that he 
had been, in the afternoon, examined by the 
royalist officers, and afterwards thrust into a 
wretched hovel, with all the misery, but none 
of the security, of confinement. He had just 
availed himself of the carelessness of his guards 
to effect his escape, when, in search of some 
hiding-place, he was attracted by the light in 
the cottage window. He knew, he said, that 
he ran a fearful risk; but seeing through the 
lattice that there was only a woman, and that a 
young one (he could not force himself to say a 
pretty, or even an interesting one—words so 
common), he relied on her compassion over- 
powering every feeling of harshness or hos- 
tility. He intreated her to protect and shelter 
him—and she did so. There was no time for 
hesitation, had she even been disposed to hesi- 
tate; but of this it will be believed she never 
thought, for most of my readers will possibly 
be able to testify, that when people surrender 
the heart, they are seldom difficult as to yield- 
ing up the house. She led him softly to her 
little closet, and insisted on his occupying her 


A 
170 LA VILAINE TETE. 


bed. Should any one be disposed to shrink 
from this arrangement, I must beg them simply 
to consider that Jeannette was a peasant girl, 
not versed in nice distinctions—innocent and 
ugly—and also that this was a case of life and 
death. She warmed some water, and washed 
his wounded forehead and his lacerated feet. 
Her hospital experience was now of infinite 
value, and she exercised it with a tender ala- 
crity, which she was astonished to acknowledge 
greater than usual. She next bound up his 
contused arm, and gave him, from the little 
store of the cottage, something to eat, with a 
bottle of wine, all of which he readily disposed 
of. Jeannette had seen enough of wounds to 
know that his were but slight; and though not 
quite conversant in theories of animal appetite, 
she felt there was not much danger to be ap- 
prehended from the specimen which his ex- 
hibited. Neither was she alarmed to observe 
some symptoms of drowsiness display them- 
selves in her patient’s visage. She begged of 
him to give free indulgence to his evident in- 
clination to repose. Prompted for a time by 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 171 


his expiring polttesse, he made some faint ob- 
jections; but yielding at length to her solicita- 
tions, and his own desires, he nodded an in- 
voluntary assent, and closed his eyes on such 
flagrant breach of gallantry. Jeannette had 
thus the satisfaction of seeing him sink into a 
profound sleep, and she then took possession 
of an arm-chair by the kitchen fire, where she 
sat the whole night ruminating on the oddness 
of her adventure, and forming plans for escaping 
from its dangers. 

Her cogitations were serious and embarrass- 
ing, but mixed with them was a certain buoy- 
ancy of feeling wholly unaccountable to its 
possessor. She felt that in harbouring an enemy 
to the cause, she was doing it an injury—that 
in concealing a man, particularly as he was con- 
cealed, she was committing, at least, an indis- 
cretion. She knew that in case of discovery 
she should certainly incur high censure; per- 
haps disgrace and punishment. But she seemed 
to rise superior to party feeling, to prudery, 
and even to prudence; and an inward whis- 


pering seemed still to tell her that her fears 


A 
172 LA VILAINE TETE. 


were visionary, and her risk chimerical. She 
wondered what it could be, yet scarcely liked 
to ask herself what it was. She felt an awk- 
wardness she knew not why, and yet it was so 
pleasing she was unwilling to wish herself quite 
at ease. She turned the matter over in every 
way; viewed her situation in all its aspects, 
and found it always to preserve the same face, 
like portraits, which, observed from whatever 
position we will, seem ever to fix their eyes full 
upon ours. It was thus that on every account 
she felt bound to save the young man. She 
resolved to do so at all hazards, and, as soon as 
the first glimmer of morning light broke through 

the lattice, she approached the closet to tell | 
him so. He still slept. Jeannette wished 
him awake, and strove to persuade herself that 
it was merely for his safety she wished it; 
but she longed notwithstanding for the soft 
expression of his gratitude, which she knew 
would follow her communication, for his gentle 
accents were still tingling in her ears. She 
could not, however, summon up the courage to 
disturb him, and she retreated softly to the 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 173 


kitchen again. The lark was by this time 
winging his heavenward flight, and the chirp- 
ings of the less aspiring songsters called Jean- 
nette to the window. As she opened it, the 
breeze rushed in upon her fresh and familiar ; 
and she thought that, in spite of her peril, she 
never felt so light and happy. She looked 
out revived and joyous, but her heart’s blood 
seemed suddenly congealed when she saw 
approaching from one of the opposite cottages 
three or four armed men, whom she rightly 
conjectured to be a part of the evening guard 
in search of their fugitive foe. She hurried 
into his hiding-place, and not having the power 
of utterance, she shook him into sensibility, 
and a sense of his danger. ‘Time was precious ; 
security was the first consideration; and in 
order to it he was obliged to submit to the un- 
pleasant necessity of being covered with a huge 
heap of the unwashed linen, which Jeannette 
threw carelessly over him, leaving but a small 
opening at the back part of the bed, through 
which he had just room to breathe. This 
being arranged, she spread her table in the 


. A 
174 LA VILAINE TETE. 


kitchen for the apparent completion of her 
task; and had just renewed it, when the door 
was unceremoniously burst open by the dreaded 
visitors. We must not, however, mistake their 
motives, nor imagine from their conduct any 
thing derogatory to the respectability of our 
cottage friends. Suspicion never ventured to 
light upon their loyalty, but their well-known 
humanity caused them to be doubted on this 
occasion. ‘To the opening interrogations Jean- 
nette could make no reply. She trembled in 
visible agitation; and the rude remarks of her 
inquisitors awakened the old woman in the 
room within. Her thoughts, which had been 
latterly in constant movement, and turned un- 
ceasingly on the subject of revolutionary alarms, 
immediately pictured, in the rough figures that 
now entered her chamber, the living apparitions 
which her imagination had conjured up. Her 
consequent scream came like confirmation to 
the suspicions of the soldiers. They therefore 
proceeded with increased asperity to announce 
to the dame the nature of their visit, and to 
commence without delay its business. When 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 175 


she rightly understood their meaning, and her 
own safety, her feelings took a new turn, and 
rage usurped the throne just vacated by terror. 
She gave vent to her resentment in a shower of 
such reproaches as weak people, in their anger, 
are wont to lavish on those friends from whom 
they dread no retaliation. The soldiers smiled, 
and continued their search. They poked their 
heads into every nook sufficiently capacious, 
and their bayonets where those could not enter. 
The very sanctuary of the old lady’s repose 
was violated by this pointed scrutiny ; and when 
satisfied that no living thing lurked beneath the 
blankets, they proceeded to the closet of Jean- 
nette to repeat the operation. The suffocating 
heap which covered her bed was just about to 
be submitted to the like examination, when the 
old woman fiercely interposed, exclaiming that 
it was the general’s linen, in time to save the 
heap from perforation, and the whole secret from 
discovery. Jeannette stood silent and almost 
senseless, being unblessed by the force of mind 
which enables us to overcome our feelings, or 
the power of deception which teaches us to 


A 
176 LA VILAINE TETE. 


conceal them. The old woman, taking ad- 
vantage of the hesitation which her last appeal 
had produced, assumed a higher tone, and 
threatened punishment for the affront thus in- 
flicted on one of the functionaries (that was the 
washerwoman) of the right (that was the royal) 
cause. The soldiers, brought to their recol- 
lection, began to look like agents who have 
exceeded their powers. They gave one secret, 
searching glance at the old woman, and another 
at Jeannette. The demeanour of the first dis- 
armed suspicion, while the looks of the latter 
defied it. The old woman’s countenance beamed 
indignant innocence, and he must have been in- 
deed a clever physiognomist who could have | 
discovered a secret in our heroine’s illegible 
face. Baffied in their object, the party retired, 
and before night the pursuit was abandoned for 
the observance of more material concerns. 

The approach of the republican army, in all 
the flush of victory, was this very day announced 
at quarters; and the village had been fixed on,. 
in a council of the chiefs, as the spot most 
favourable to the junction of the royalist di- 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 7 


visions, for the purpose of risking a general 
action. Great bustle of course prevailed, and 
the minds of all being occupied in anticipations 
of the coming contest, Jeannette was for several 
days left unmolested to the discharge of her 
duties towards her interesting invalid. I pass 
over the detail of the many difficulties she ex- 
perienced in concealing him from her grand- 
mother’s observation. ‘These, however. she 
surmounted with an address surprising to her- 
self, proportioned to her former ignorance in 
the science of hypocrisy; and which gave La 
Coste a notion of her cleverness, exaggerated 
by the contrast of his first impressions. He 
had a less arduous, but more wearisome, part 
to play ;—to suffer that state of demi-existence 
where the body is obliged to lie passive and 
inert, while every energy of the mind gains new 
activity, and the brain seems wearing out the 
frame-work that contains its busy machinery. 
He lay for most part of the day in bed, nearly 
smothered by the weight of clothes which his 
considerate protectress took care to heap upon 
him. When cramped and exhausted almost 


VOL. I. N 


A 
178 LA VILAINE TETE. 


beyond endurance, he used occasionally to creep 
from his concealment, and screened by some 
linen, which Jeannette hung before the door 
and window as if to dry, he snatched the in- 
dulgence of a few stooping, distorted turns up 
and down the closet (which was three good 
paces in length), and then stole again into his 
covert. At night his situation was more to- 
lerable. The weather at the time was happily 
dark and clouded, and he might with safety sit 
at the open casement breathing the freshness 
of the midnight air; and he sometimes even 
stepped boldly out into the little garden, unable 
to resist his desire to tread the earth once more, 
and feel himself half free. 

Dread of discovery, which would not only 
bring down certain ruin upon him, but as in- 
fallibly compromise the safety of his preserver, 
obliged him to retrench this only solace of his 
imprisonment. Returning into his closet, he 
was always sure to perceive the little table 
covered with an ample supply for that appetite 
which convalescence every day increased, and 
over which confinement exercised its control in. 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 179 


_ vain. He had no longer any bodily ill, for the 
application of Jeannette’s simple remedies had 
already removed every obstacle to the recovery 
of his strength. The consequent consumption 
of bread, cheese, and eggs was enormous, and 
perfectly incomprehensible to the old woman, 
who saw, of a morning, a complete clearance of 
as much food as used to serve for three or four 
days provision for herself and Jeannette. The 
latter had been ever a remarkably poor eater, 
but she all of a sudden proclaimed a hunger 
that verged upon voracity ; and, what was still 
more extraordinary to the grandmother, it was 
at night that this miraculous increase of ap- 
petite was principally displayed. To sausages 
Jeannette, from her earliest moments, had had 
a decided antipathy. The old woman well re- 
membered that when the poor girl, at six months 
old, had lost her mother, and with her the na- 
tural nourishment of her age, a tender-hearted 
neighbour who stood by, in the act of eating 
one of those savoury preparations of country 
cookery, would have soothed the crying infant 
by a morsel of the tempting relish; but the 
N2 


A 
180 LA VILAINE TETE:; 


shock inflicted upon the palate of the child was 
so severe, that she never could overcome the 
dislike—yet of a dozen of these delicacies, now 
presented to her grandmother by a neighbour, 
only two were suffered to proceed on their 
original destination. Jeannette arrested the 
progress of the others, She put in her claim 
to their possession, and seemed resolved, by 
this sudden affection, to atone for her long in- 
dulged hostility. Wine, too, which she had 
before now rarely tasted, became a matter of 
absolute necessity. She proclaimed herself in 
daily want of a portion, more than had formerly 
served her for a month. ‘The fact was, that | 
she was afraid to take the unusual step of seek- 
ing abroad those supplies which her patient re- 
quired, and preferred exciting the astonishment 
of her aged relative to arousing the suspicion 

of her younger friends. She endeavoured to 
} persuade the former that her marvellous ap- 
petite was the natural effect of her increased 
exertions; but this did not satisfy the old wo- 
man. Convinced that some miracle was work- 
ing, she vainly exerted her conjectural faculties 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 181 


to explain it away ; and finding, at length, that 
it was too vague for her solution, she had re- 
course to her saint, whose name I am ignorant 
of, and' whose power or inclination was, in this 
case, insufficient. Invocation, prayer, and per- 
severance were fruitlessly essayed for a whole 
week. The mysterious secret remained un- 
solved, and the piety of the dame, like that of 
many another pretending to more sanctity, being 
weakened by the want of immediate satisfac- 
tion, she abandoned her reliance on super- 
natural power, and was on the point of turning 
into the channel of mortal sagacity—in fact, 
she had just resolved to consult the curé on the 
question, when the rapid march of events re- 
moved the necessity, as well as the opportunity, 
for so doing. In the meantime Jeannette em- 
ployed herself in unceasing efforts for the 
advantage and comfort of her protegé. She 
supplied him with a pair of shoes, the best she 
had of two pair; and let not the idolater of fe- 
male symmetry be agonised to learn, that they 
fitted him well, but rather loosely ; for the foot 
of the young grenadier did not measure the 


182 LA VILAINE TET. 
tenth part of an inch more in length, and con- 
siderably less than that in breadth, than the 
mark imprinted by our heroine in the mud, 
when she paced the winter pathways of the vil- 
lage. She supplied him, too, with stockings 
from her scanty store (but lam not prepared to 
treat of the mystery of ¢hezr proportion). She 
employed herself at night in changing the whole 
arrangement of his dress. She cut his military 
coat into the jacket of a simple civilian ; stripped 
it of its warlike ornaments, and turned the skirts 
intoa cap. For ten nights she never slept but 
in the great chair before mentioned, and she 
was beginning to show evident marks of fatigue | 
and anxiety. Her patient observed this, and 
he felt deeply both her kindness and her suffer- 
ing. He bounded with ardour to be once more 
in action; he considered his concealment a dis- 
grace, and burned with shame at the thought 
of being discovered by his comrades, on the 
triumphant entry which he anticipated, hidden 
under a bundle of foul linen! 

The preparations for the battle were now 


coming toa close. The royalist position was 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE, 183 


strengthened by every possible means. Re- 
doubts were constructed on the rising grounds, 
trees felled in the plains below; the rivulets 
dammed up, to be let loose as the enemy ad- 
vanced :—nothing, in short, was left undone to 
second the bravery of the peasant troops, whose 
courage was unabated, but whose tactics had 
gained nothing by experience. Daily skirmishes 
took place, and random discharges of artillery 
rolled their echoes round the village. 

The troops on either side could with diffi- 
culty be restrained. Reinforcements thronged 
to the royalist lines; and the victorious enemy, 
approaching from all quarters, had ranged his 
battalions close to the front of their redoubts. 
The morrow of a gloomy evening was fixed on 
for the attack. The manceuvres of the repub- 
licans gave certain intimation of this, and the 
dawn was ardently watched for by their daring 
and desperate opponents. Every movement 
was known in the village, and reported accu- 
rately by Jeannette to the inquiring La Coste. 
His resolution may be anticipated. He was 


determined, at all hazards, to quit his conceal- 


A 
184. LA VILAINE TETE. 


ment, and make an effort to join the republican 
army. Jeannette made no opposition: she 
knew it would be vain; and the certainty of 
losing him deprived her of ail power of argu- 
ment or entreaty. She passively assented to 
his plans. A leaden apathy seemed to weigh 
her down. As evening closed in, her oppres- 
sion increased, mixed witha breathless gnawing 
anxiety of which she knew not the meaning. 
Who can define it; yet who has not felt it at 
the heavy hour of hopeless separation ? 

It became quite dark, and a heavy rain poured 
down as if expressly to increase the facilities 
for the escape. The old woman had retired to 
bed, in the hope of snatching some repose from 
the constant agitation which preyed upon her. 
Jeannette had prepared a little repast for La 
Coste, but when she offered him to eat he 
could not touch it! This sudden failure of ap- 
petite was no trifling proof of sensibility. Jean- 
nette knew better than any one how to measure 
its force; she felt it fully, and could not re- 
strain her tears. But she turned from him, 
lest he should observe or be infected by her 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 185 


weakness. She opened a drawer, and taking 
from it a small leather purse, which contained 
all the earnings of her several weeks’ work, she 
put it into his hands. He refused it by every 
declining gesture, for he was unable to speak ; 
but she insisted by entreaties, silent but yet so 
powerful, that he at last consented, and placed 
it in his bosom, saying, ‘ Until to-morrow, 
since it must be so.” Had he known it to have 
contained the whole of her little store, would 
he, on any terms, have been persuaded to ac- 
cept it, or have suffered any hope, however 
sanguine, to have made him risk the contingen- 
cies of the morrow? [I think not. 

The final moment of parting was at hand. 
La Coste saw clearly the workings of Jean- 
nette’s despair. ‘They pained him, but he had 
no reciprocity in her pangs. He was more and 
more impatient to depart, for he felt not that 
desperate enjoyment which leads the lover 
to cling on in agonized procrastination to the 
misery of such a moment. Jeannette was not 
so utterly involved in her own sorrow as not to 
see the actual extent of his, or the delicacy 


A 


186 LA VILAINE TETE. 


which still kept him near her. She made one 
struggle: she opened the little window. He 
eagerly caught the permission thus given him, 
and stepped out into the garden. She pointed 
once more to the path leading to the wood, 
where he trusted to find an opening beyond 
the extent of the royalist lines. He pressed her 
chill hands to his lips, and tenderly uttered, 
“God bless you, my preserver! expect me 
to-morrow.” She faintly whispered, ‘“ Adieu!” 
and in a moment he was lost in the darkness. 
The pattering of the rain drowned even the 
sound of his footsteps. The shock was in- 
stantaneous, and poor Jeannette sunk back ina - 
chair, quite stupefied with sorrow. 

The dawn was fearfully ushered in. Cannon 
and musketry heralded its earliest beam: Jean- 
nette started at the first discharge, from a state 
of several hours unconsciousness. She knew 
not if she had slept, for no dream had left its 
shadowy trace on the monotony of her repose. 
She had been, perhaps, in waking insensibility 
—no memory of her thoughts remained to mark 
the hours. All that she recollected was the 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 187 


parting movement of La Coste, and his gentle 
murmur, “ Expect me to-morrow.” Her first 
impulse was to spring forward to the window, 
as in hope to catch another glimpse of his re- 
treating form—but the flash of morning light 
just breaking o’er the heavens, struck her back 
in shocked amazement. How had the night 
elapsed, and where was he? The thundering 
roll of the artillery gave reply, and the reality 
rushed upon her with that overpowering abrupt- 
ness which seems to stifle thought, while, at the 
same time, it gives new nerve to the mind’s 
energies. She flung open the cottage door, 
and, as if every feeling was absorbed in the one 
great object of discovering him, she ran at her 
utmost speed to the nearest rising ground in 
the direction of the battle. As she reached 
the summit of the little hill, shouts of triumph 
broke upon her. She saw the women of the 
royalist army, with frantic yet joyous gestures, 
waving handkerchiefs, dancing, singing; while, 
in a cloud of smoke below, she distinguished 
the great body of the Vendéans rushing on the 


republican lines, and sweeping every thing 


188 LA VILAINE TETE. 


before them. Their impetuosity had led them 
to anticipate the meditated attack, and scarcely 
had the opening roar of the redoubts com- 
menced, when they precipitated themselves 
from their position with a movement as un- 
looked for as it was resistless. The chiefs 
knowing how to profit by this impulse—and 
which was, indeed, their only knowledge in the 
arts of war—threw themselves before the troops 
with their accustomed gallantry. The repub- 
licans kept up awhile a murderous fire, but they 
were every where broken. The advantages of 
one side, and the disorder of the other, were, 
however, but temporary. The courage of the 
republicans was unshaken, and after a little 
breathing time given by a moment’s check 
which their violent antagonists experienced: 
they turned round with all the steadiness of 
veterans, and changed the fortune of the day. 
The Vendéans fell back, but not in flight. 
They opposed no well-trained masses to the 
advance of the enemy’s columns, but flinging 
themselves behind the hedges in scattered 
groups, they forced their opponents to attack 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 189 


them in detail, and the fight became a bloody 
struggle of man to man. When personal 
prowess is the sole resource between foes 
equally brave, and alike enthusiastic in their 
respective causes, it is numbers alone which 
can be expected to decide the contest. This 
preponderance was at the side of the repub- 
licans, but their superiority in tactics was here 
of no avail. Their generals even were obliged 
to abandon their knowledge of manceuvyring, of 
discipline, and command, to combat foot to 
foot with some sturdy peasant, who forced 
them, by his way of fighting, to acknowledge 
his equality. The Vendéans at length aban- 
doned the valley, and as they more rapidly 
retreated up the rising ground, the panic-struck 
females fled towards the village, uttering the 
most fearful shrieks. One alone remained: it 
was Jeannette, who stood in silent and awful 
observation. From the moment in which she 
had reached the summit of the hillock, hey 
eyes had been fixed on the scene of blood 
below her. Fear never entered her heart: its 


A 
190 LA VILAINE TETE. 


whole emotions seemed changed from their 
usual course. She heard the angry voice of 
the combat—the whistling of the bullets—the 
clash of swords—the groans of anguish, with- 
out any one of those heart-sinking sensations 
which used to be excited by the most trifling 
sounds of danger or suffering. The only tone 
which seemed to impress itself upon her was 
the parting murmur of La Coste. ‘“ Expect 


, 


me to-morrow,” was ever self-repeated in her 
brain ; and in spite of improbability, of danger, 
and even of death, she clung with unshaken 
certainty to the fulfilment of the expectation. 
Her vacant stare looked for him in every group — 
of desperate combatants. It rested the longest 
wherever the deadliest feats of valour were 
actine—for something told her that there should 
be his place. When a republican soldier fell 
to earth, she sickened with apprehension; but 
if one of her own party dropped under the 
blows of his antagonists, she felt on the con- 
trary a sort of throb something quite different 
from pain. Jeannette, once or twice, during 


LA VILAINE TETE. 191 


her terrible suspense, was startled and shocked 
at this state of feeling. She had not, however, 
time to enter into its analysis, nor have I. 

A general and overwhelming charge, which 
the open nature of the upland ground allowed 
the republicans to make, carried the broken 
parties of the Vendéans before it, as a shattered 
herd borne along by the flooding of some mighty 
stream. ‘The mingled mass rolled onward. to- 
wards the village, and Jeannette was hurried 
with it, stunned and almost stifled by the noise 
and pressure of the throng. The Vendéans 
seemed actuated by a single soul, for each indi- 
vidual, as he extricated himself from the multi- 
tude, made towards the church, as if in search 
of safety from its protection, or in determina- 
tion to die under its venerated walls. The 
body of the building was already filled to suffo- 
cation, for the curé was within, celebrating mass 
to a mixed and melancholy congregation of dis- 
tracted women, wounded and desperate soldiers, 
and those sick and fainting wretches who occu- 
pied their miserable beds in this hospital sanc- 
tuary. The little band of native warriors, 


¢ A 
192 LA VILAINE TETE. 


headed by the seigneur, made a bold stand to 
save their village from the pollution of the foe, 
and allowed an opportunity to the great re- 
treating body to form a deep and solid circle 
round the church. Bent there upon their knees, 
or stretched prostrate on the earth, they invoked 
the aid of Heaven, and filled with momentary 
enthusiasm, they rushed again to the fight in 
renewed and firmer resolution. But the num- 
bers of the enemy forced back all resistance, 
and advancing into the village, they commenced 
their horrid system of warfare, by setting fire 
to the cottages in successive order. ‘That of 
our heroine being the very first on the course 
of the rivulet running parallel with the road, 
was one of the first in flames. She saw the 
faggots placed around it—the smoke and the 
fire burst up. She shuddered: she would have 
screamed, but her voice seemed choking her 
in every effort to articulate; and as the door 
began to crackle in the blaze, she fancied she 
heard from within the faint murmur of a female 
voice! It might be so—for from that hour 
she never saw her grandmother, and she never 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 193 


knew her fate. The fragile framework of the 
rustic habitation was soon a blaze. The repub- 
licans rushed on through the fiery wreaths 
which rolled out on all sides, and the shrieks 
of the women and children, with the deeper 
execrations of the furious villagers, rose up like 
the discordant yells which poets have imagined 
to burst from Pandemonium, and mixed them- 
selves with the triumphant shouts of their 
fierce assailants. Every hope seemed lost to 
the Vendéans. They were borne backwards 
even beyond the church; and the foremost of 
the enemy, with sacrilegious hands, applied 
their torches to the consecrated walls. The 
crumbling wood-works, dried by the heats of a 
hundred summers, caught quickly the assailing 
flames. The horror-struck congregation sent 
forth one tremendous cry, and precipitated 
themselves on the incendiaries without. ‘Che 
rush was terrific.. ‘The republicans oftered no 
resistance, for the demoniac passions of the day 
gave way to the natural humanity of the French 
heart. They could not raise their weapons 
against the flying crowd, but saw them scatter 


VOL. I. O 


A 
194 LA VIILAINE TETE. 


cross the fields without firing a single shot to 
increase the panic which impelled them. 

At this instant the ceremony of the mass was 
finished. The curé had, with unruffled solem- 
nity, performed its sacred mysteries, amidst all 
the appalling sounds which rose around him. 
He now descended the steps of the altar, and 
bearing aloft the chalice, containing the in- 
gredients which the faith of such a being has 
almost the power to dignify into the reality of 
his sublimed imagining, he followed the impulse 
of the escaping concourse; and as the latest 
fugitive passed the wide-spreading blaze, he 
issued from the porch in all the majesty and 
might of holiness. He spoke not, but stopping 
for an instant, looked full upon the thousands 
of armed men who circled the little eminence. 
The effect was magical. The whole, as if 
struck by an electric pang, turned from him 
and fled. No voice was raised to stay them. 
No standard uplifted around which they might 
rally. All mingled im indiscriminate rout. The 
Vendéans saw this inexplicable scene. It ap- 
peared to them to exceed the possibilities of 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 195 


human influence, and they attributed the miracle 
to the immediate interposition of the Deity. 
The thought darted through them like inspira- 
tion; and, following their chiefs, whose efforts 
to reanimate them had been unceasing, they 
rushed once more around the church. The 
curé advanced, surrounded by the flames which 
the enthusiasm of his ardent observers con- 
verted into a halo of celestial glory; and with 
the utmost energy which his feeble frame 
allowed, he sang the chorus of their battle song. 
The wide air rang with the congregated bursts 
from every individual voice, and the torrent 
poured onwards. The Vendéans were stopped 
at every step by heaps of their dead comrades, 
who had fallen on the enemy’s advance; but 
the speed of their vengeance overtook its vic- 
tims, and a horrid carnage ensued. Frightful 
as these scenes are in themselves, there are 
times when they borrow from circumstances 
a character of exaggerated atrocity—and this 
was one. When the business of death is 
wrested, in a measure, from the agents to which 
o2 


A 
196 LA VILAINE TETE. 


its infliction seems appropriate; when men 
consign the work of slaughter to feebler hands ; 
when woman bears her part in the battle; and 
childhood sports among the bodies of the slain, 
and dabbles its innocent fingers in their blood. 

The village was soon cleared of the hated 
intruders, but a strong reserve, posted on the 
heights by the wary and experienced Wester- | 
mann, arrested again the advance of the Ven- 
déans, and finally turned the scale of victory 
against them. Still, however, they pressed on- 
wards; and foremost among the brave was the 
seigneur, who seemed actuated by the feeling 
that courage, on such ground, was his more pe- 
culiar privilege. He bore the banner in his left 
hand, and, with his sword, carved for himself a 
passage through the thickest of the fight. Jean- 
nette, borne by the current of the crowd, saw 
him one instant separated by a circle of the 
enemy from his companions, and fighting with 
desperate valour. In the next, the white flag 
sunk below the heads of the combatants, and 
when her gaze again fixed upon its: hapless 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 197 


bearer, she saw him carried towards the village 
in the arms of four of his own soldiers, mangled 
and lifeless. 

With the death of their beloved chieftain, 
and the fall of the banner, seemed to sink the 
hearts of its supporters. Actual flight was in- 
compatible with the valour of their officers— 
La Roche-Jacquelin, Lescure, de Marigny, 
Bonchamp, are names which warrant this as- 
sertion; but they nevertheless fell back, fight- 
ing step by step their bloody way. Jeannette, 
whose personal fears and hopes were merged 
in the general horrors around her, forgot all 
private feeling, and thought her heart would 
break at the contemplation of the universal 
misery. She put up some short irregular 
prayers, and experienced, what most of us have 
sometime or other felt, the ineptitude of stated 
and stately invocations to scenes of imminent 
alarm. Her whole thoughts seemed to turn 
towards the saintly man who in this hour ap- 
peared, by his profession as well as his virtues, 
to approach the nearest to that power in whom 
alone was hope for safety. She hurried to and 


A 


198 LA VILAINE TETE. 


fro across the battle field, and often—alas! how 
often—turned shuddering from the hacked and 
bleeding victims of the direful day; from the 
ferocious enemy howling forth his curses as 
he died; or the acquaintance or friend stiff in 
death, and consuming in the blaze of his own 
cottage. At length she caught a glimpse of 
the holy father, and flying over many a horrible 
impediment, she threw herself on her knees be- 
side him, and sought to cover herself with the 
skirt of his mantle. He was bending over a 
wounded republican, and in the glow of piety 
administering the sacred rites of the church 
to the expiring sinner. He was surrounded by 
a heap of dead and dying. Several of the 
latter, of both parties, made straining efforts to 
crawl towards him. Some with piercing shrieks 
demanded his aid; while others, unable to ar- 
ticulate the wish, fixed their glazed looks upon 
him, as if the very beam of his eye poured con- 
solation to their souls. The pressure of the 
enemy increased each moment, and a thicken- 
ing shower of balls flew round the spot. Jean- » 
nette, forgetting in her fright the sacredness of 


A 
LA VILAINE TETR. 199 


his occupation, and the veneration with which 
she was wont to look upon the priest, flung her 
arms around him, and in an agony of agitation 
implored him to save her. He turned calmly 
round, recognized her, and pointing his finger 
to Heaven, just uttered, “ My child—” when 
his voice ceased, and falling from her faint em- 
brace, he sunk to earth. Two bullets of a 
well-directed volley had pierced his breast, and 
forced the life-blood from his innocent heart, 
The warm stream covered the garments of 
Jeannette. She gazed a moment on his out- 
stretched body, and then ran in frantic agony 
towards the home where instinct seemed to 
point her steps. 

Unhurt, almost by miracle, she hurried 
through the scorched and suffocating air, in 
the direction of what was once the cottage. 
Its position alone enabled her to recognize it 
now, for not a half of the walls reared their 
blackened remains above the still-burning heap 
of rubbish. The garden was utterly destroyed. 
The vines which used to hang so gracefully 
above the door were now leafless and shrivelled; 


A 
200 LA VILAINE TETE. 


and the branches of the beautiful acacias, which 
had so long shaded the roof, parched, shrunk, 
and crackling in the column of smoke which half 
hid their deformity. Many other sad and striking 
contrasts to its former state were offered to the 
miserable girl by the present desolation of her 
only home. She paced its limited extent, and 
sought, amidst its ruins, for her old and helpless 
relative, but in vain. Not even a vestige of the 
homely furniture had escaped the dames—all 
was consumed. Jeannette, giving way to a burst 
of utter agony, covered her face with her hands, 
and sank upon the smoking heap. 

The clamour of the fight was gradually re- — 
tiring. The still-prolonged struggle had left 
the village behind it, but many stragglers were 
flitting across the road, whose fierce and hag- 
gard looks might have suited the worst of the 
spirits of ill. Jeannette once more looked up, 
but not in hope. A mechanical movement, 
rather than an effort of the will, made her fix 
her gaze on the desolate scene around her. 
She had no longer aught to look for, for he 
alone on whom her thoughts could dare to rest 


LA ViLAINE TEE. 201 
had either fallen in the fray cr forgotten her. 
What, then, was her astonishment to see a re- 
publican soldier following the course of the 
little rivulet, as if its windings were his guide 
towards her, while, as he approached her, he 
pronounced her name! The voice was weak 
and hoarse—speaking exhaustion and pain. 
She thought she had never before heard it, 
yet whose could it be but his? She sprang 
upon her feet, and ran to meet him. When he 
perceived her, he increased his speed, and she 
saw, in his elastic bound, the ardour and anima- 
tion of youth. He was too distant to allow of 
her distinguishing his features, but the image 
stamped upon her memory filled up the interval 
between her and him. She saw that he held his 
hand above his head, as if to mark to her that 
it contained some object destined for her. She 
involuntarily expanded her arms as though he 
were close to her embrace, when at the instant 
of his springing across the rivulet to cut off a 
turn which retarded his approach, a party of 
three or four Vendéans, retreating to the wood, 
discharged their carbines at him, and he fell 


A 
902 LA VILAINE TETE. 


dead into the stream. Jeannette heard the re- 
port of the volley, and saw him fall, but could 
not—would not believe he was to rise no more. 
She flew to the spot. He had fallen on his 
face. His arms were extended before him on 
the bank; one hand holding firmly his musket, 
and the other Jeannette’s leathern purse. She 
shuddered with a mixture of every horrible 
sensation as she gazed on this testimony of 
honour, feeling, and, she would have thought, 
affection. But even in this hour of anguish, 
reason made itself heard to check the latter 
belief. Scarcely conscious of what she did, 
she stepped into the stream, and raised the body — 
up. At this moment the murderers reached 
the spot; and, in defiance of her entreaties, 
shrieks, and struggles, two of them forced her 
with them to the wood, while another rifled the 
body, and then flung it again indignantly into 
the water. 

Arrived at the skirts of the wood, Jeannette 
cast back one glance upon the fatal spot where 
all her hopes were buried. She distinguished 
nothing but the smoke curling above the cot- 


LA VILAINE TETE. 203 


tage ruins, and the more distant blaze uprising 
from the church. Just as her conductors hur- 
ried her into the concealment of the trees, the 
roof of the sacred building fell in with a loud 
crash, and the yell which came down the wind 
announced the ferocious joy of its destroyers. 
The contents of the purse were soon divided. 
Jeannette was offered some of her own money, 
but she shrank back from its acceptance. All 
that she asked for and procured, was the black 
silk handkerchief, which she thought she re- 
cognized, and a scrap of paper, on which some- 
thing was written unintelligible to Jeannette as 
well as the group around her. She felt, how- 
ever, a tender expectation of finding some one 
capable of reading its contents; she knew not 
that La Coste possessed the accomplishment of 
being able to write. He had never said he did. 
But in her present wretchedness she dwelt on 
this proof of his modesty with a comfortless 
kind of satisfaction, of the same nature with 
that which she felt in the possession of this 
scrap of his original composition—for other she 
never thought it. She placed the paper in her 


+ A 
204 LA VILAINE TETE. 


bosom, and tied the handkerchief round her 
throbbing head. For some hours she wandered 
in the skirts of the wood with her companions, 
and heard with indifference the various lamenta- 
tions and threats of vengeance muttered against 
their victors. ‘The evening fell at length. She 
took advantage of the dusk, left her com- 
panions, and emerged from the thicket. She. 
soon arrived on the banks of the rivulet. She 
hastened towards the memorable spot. Bodies 
were scattered there in sad abundance, but it 
was impossible to distinguish any one amongst 
the heaps. The stream rippled redly on;— 
faint groans issued from the dying wretches © 
washed by its sanguined waters—no other 
sounds were heard except the moaning of the 
evening breeze, and the broken murmurs of an 
impatient and gloomy band of republicans, to 
whom had devolved the task of burying their 
fallen friends. ‘They were busily at work, and 
the echo of their spades, striking the branches 
of trees, stones, and other obstacles, fell upon 
the ear of Jeannette as a fitting consummation 
of this most terrible day. She tottered towards 


LA VILAINE TETE. 205 
the ruins of the cottage. Faint, and sick at 
heart, she had just strength enough left to 
reach the spot, when she fell down exhausted, 
and as she thought expiring. 

She lived, however, to see other, and, per- 
haps, more wretched days; for with the mor- 
row came that loneliness of heart which follows 
the loss of happiness, unsupported by the sti- 
mulating anguish, whose violence seems to lift 
us above the reach of despair. The hour of 
earliest suffering is certainly not that of greatest 
sorrow—for in the first the intensity of the feel- 
ing weakens its effect. The heart-strings seem 
drawn up in defiance of actual pain; and the 
shock falls down with such a general pressure, 
that no individual sensation has power to at- 
tribute it to itself. But when the mind relaxes 
from this tension, and the memory can take in 
the blessings we have lost, as well as the in- 
fliction which destroyed them, then comes the 
reign of indescribable distress; when the heart 
seems balanced in a cold and desolate void—as 
if no blood ran through it, and no fibre touched 
‘it. Such were the waking feelings of Jean. 


A 
206 LA VILAINE TETE. 


nette when the hot sunbeams shone upon her 
wretchedness. Parched, cold, feverish, and 
forlorn, she raised her heavy head to meet the 
light. She left her retreat, and turning to the 
rivulet, would have quenched in its quiet stream 
the fire which seemed consuming her. Arrived 
at the brink, she shrank back in unspeakable 
disgust on seeing the water still tinged with the 
blood of the preceding day. She next turned 
her steps towards the village— The village! 
It existed, alas! no more. All traces of re- 
semblance were gone by. ‘The houses were 
every one destroyed; whole gardens rooted up ; 
trees cut into pieces by the shots; branches 
shorn away and scattered on the ground: the 
very earth transformed into a monument of ruin; 
the road and the fields furrowed alike into one 
mass of mud, and strewn with the yet unburied 
bodies of the Vendéans, and all the accumu- 
lated fragments of the battle. No living thing 
relieved the desolation, or bore witness to the 
dreary scene. 

Jeannette proceeded in the direction of the 
chateau, which lay at the further extremity of 


-_ 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 207 


the village. She soon perceived it, and to her 
utter surprise it was entire. Smoke issued from 
its tall, dark chimneys, but it was the token of 
good cheer, and not destruction. As she ap- 
proached, a ruffian-looking republican rushed 
out, and, in a ferocious tone, demanded what 
she wanted. She nearly sunk jo the earth, and 
lost all use of speech. He again fiercely ad- 
dressed her, and placed his bayonet to her 
breast, with horrid imprecations asking of what 
party she was. Every sense of recollection left 
the affrighted girl, who, almost unconscious of 
his question, muttered instinctively the word 
most familiar to her lips and feelings, “ Royal- 
ist.” He did not kill her, but seizing her by 
the hair, he dragged her into the chateau, 
where a small guard had been left by the vic- 
tors, the great body of whom had directed their 
march to Nantes, while a single division was 
detached in pursuit of the broken and dispersed 
Vendéans. The officer in command of the 
chateau, hearing the charge against Jeannette, 
ordered her to be thrust into a hovel in the 


208 LA VILAINE TETE. 
court-yard, where a miserable remnant of the 
villagers were confined. 

When she saw herself among these old friends 
of her happiest days, and now the companions 
of her ruin, a something like pleasure seemed 
to break upon her. They had, however, little 
to communicate but sighs, tears, and lamenta- 
tions. A night was passed in this monotony of 
woe. They were furnished with a scanty supply 
of coarse food, which served but to irritate the 
hunger that, in spite of romance, will force its 
way through the deepest suffering. 

At day-break they were all summoned out to 
the court-yard, prepared for any fate, and in- 
different to all. But Death had not yet closed 
with his victims. They were brought forth, and 
having each received a portion of bread, they 
set off, escorted by the guard of the chateau, 
on the road to Nantes, which was, they were 
informed, their final destination. They pro- 
ceeded silently and sullenly on. As they quitted 
the long-loved spot for ever, the villagers, with 


a simultaneous movement, turned round their 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 209 


heads. They saw enough in one glance to 
satisfy their despair. To complete the picture 
of the preceding days, the chateau was now in 
flames, its relentless conquerors having resolved 
to leave no vestige of the village undestroyed. 
It was thus these warriors marched through 
their native land—desolation the monument of 
their victories, and a desert the resting-place of 
their renown. 

As the party proceeded, the track of their 
precursors was easily distinguished. Ruins, 
havoc, and death, choked up the passage of the 
roads; but not one surviving wretch was found 
to tell the fate of his fellows. ‘They emerged, 
at length, from the woody fastnesses of La Ven- 
dée, and, reaching the gently-winding Sevre, 
the fine varieties of nature burst, for the first 
time, on the prisoners, but not in _ beauty. 
Their woe-worn hearts could ill participate in 
the enjoyments of such scenes ; and what is love- 
liness if sympathy responds not to its charms? 
How vainly may the richest view expand itself be- 
fore our gaze—how ineffectual are the grandest 


VOL. I. P 


A 
210 LA VILAINE TETE. 


exhibitions of combined magnificence, if the 
soul is unattuned by inward preparation! We 
call this landscape beautiful, or that sublime— 
phrases of form, conventional terms agreed on 
between men—but through the widest range of 
loveliness or splendour, we find nothing with 
power to stamp its meaning on us if our sus- 
ceptibilities are not in unison to receive the im- 
press. Such was not the case with the unhappy 
outcasts whose route I am now following. To 
mark the various feelings of their lone and 
agitated minds would be a sad and difficult 
task. With my hapless heroine every thought 
was paralysed and plunged in dead indifference. — 
For her the Loire, upon whose banks the third 
day brought them, flowed unobserved. 'The 
acclivities by which it is bordered, with all their 
scattered ornaments—castles, abbeys, villages, 
and hamlets—uprose around her, but in vain. 
The frequent vineyards, in their picturesque 
positions, planted on the steep rocks which 
hang over the water’s edge, and showing often 
from their mass of foliage the habitation of the 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 211 


vigneron hewn in the breast of the calcareous 
cliff—all these sweet combinations were lost 
upon the desolate Jeannette. 

Another night, and Nantes displayed itself 
to view. Could any thing have awakened the 
sympathy of the suffering girl, it had surely 
been the first glance of this beautiful town: 
stretching its broad front along the banks of 
the river; its fine quay, with a double colon- 
nade of noble trees, skirting the wide and trans- 
parent stream, on the surface of which islands 
of verdure fling their reflected shadows, and 
give to the water an apparent depth, which, 
however, it does not possess. But the very 
shallowness of this charming river is to me one 
of its chief beauties; and I love to look on its 
pebbly bed, and see, in the summer season, the 
scattered sand-banks rising over its rippling 
wave, and covered with basking groups of 
cattle, or sportive bands of children. 

The mournful troop marched on. During 
their long route, the roughness of their escort 
seemed to be hushed by the influence of pity. 
The prisoners were allowed to totter on, with- 


P2 


A 
212 LA VILAINE TETE. 


out any aggravation from insult or ill-treatment ; 
but as they now approached the grand depot of 
crime and cruelty, their conductors seemed to 
gain a new ferocity in the anticipation of that | 
they went to meet. Their approach to the 
barriers was quickly announced through the 
fauxbourg, and a crowd of idle ruffians came 
out to pour their bitter and terrific welcomes. 
Jeannette was nearly dropping from exhaustion, 
covered with dust, and at no time of a pre- 
possessing appearance. Her figure was singled 
out as the particular mark of ribaldry and sar- 
casm. She bore it all, however, with a forbear-: 
ance not likely to be shaken, for it was founded — 
on despair. 

It was noon when she and her friends, the 
very refuse of wretchedness, arrived at the 
public square of Nantes, on their way to the 
prison to which they were destined. The ac- 
cumulating crowd seemed to gather fury as 
their numbers increased ; bad passions gaining 
strength from association, as virtuous feeling 
thrives in singleness and solitude. The dis- 
suasions and efforts of the guards could hardly 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 213 


protect the poor Vendéans from the violence of 
the rabble. The hootings and revilings heaped 
on them drew additional tormentors from every 
street they passed; but, in justice to the hu- 
mane and respectable portion of the population, 
it should be stated, that it was but the rabble 
who joined in this and similar persecutions. 
The town of Nantes may, in this instance, be 
fairly taken as an epitome of all France; for in 
the one, as well as the other, it was the dregs 
of society who stamped by their atrocities, the 
character of infamy which has attached itself to 
both. They got the upper hand, and used it. 
May the terrible truth carry down its moral 
with it! 

As the prisoners were hurried along, many a 
stifled sigh was given for their fate; many a 
silent prayer put up in their behalf, and even 
some remonstrances offered in their favour. 
But all was alike unknown by Jeannette and 
her companions; nor was any thing capable of 
arresting their attention, till, rising above the 
heads of the multitude, one object struck upon 
their sight, and for the first time broke their 


A 


214 LA VILAINE TETE. 


lethargy. It was the guillotine! not silent, 
motionless, unoccupied—but at work in all the 
fulness of its terrors, and surrounded by the 
worst of revolutionary excitements. 

The villagers were led in triumphant pro- 
cession through every quarter of the town. As 
they passed along the quay, scattered parties 
of the populace were shouting in joyous ac- 
clamations, as some boats, filled with people of 
both sexes, put off from the shore. Were these 
the enthusiastic adieus of affection, blending 
with the winds to waft its objects safely over 
the waves? No—a desperate enjoyment was 
mixed with the hoarse sounds, unlike the faint 
farewell of tenderness and friendship. What 
meant the answering shrieks sent forth from 
every boat—the fierce struggles of frantic 
women and despairing men, visible to the 
astonished eyes of the Vendéans? Could these 
be the expressions of departing love tearing 
itself from those who had long filled the breasts 
of the unhappy crews? No, no; it is not thus 
that parting scenes are signalized ; not thus that 
inevitable, or even sudden, separations aftect 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 915 


the traveller, of whom hope anticipates the re- 
turn. Alas! it was the noyades, whose frightful 
festival was now in celebration. Those blood- 
less butcheries, those quiet massacres, which 
first stole upon the victims in all the seduction 
of tranquillity, but which, when betrayed to 
their discovery, came more shocking than the 
direst preparations for slaughter. 

The day was closing in upon these horrid 
scenes, when the prisoners flung themselves 
upon their heaps of straw in the gloomy prison 
ealled L’Entrepét. Each hour which brought 
them nearer to their end showed them the ter- 
rible novelties of life. Dungeons and shackles, 
and blood and blasphemy, surrounded them. 
The night passed by in darkness; but the din 
of agonised despair—the clank of chains—the 
echoing of clenched fists against the half-dis- 
tracted head—the laugh of maniac fear—the 
wailing of the weak—the imprecations of the 
violent—the deep breath of the sleepers, for 
even there was sleep—the death rattle in the 
throats of those who thus cheated the monsters 


A 
216 LA VILAINE TETE. 


of the morrow,—these were the combinations 
that filled up the creeping hours. 

The grated portal was thrown open with the 
dawn, and the anxious guards rushed in. Their 
first care was to remove the bodies of the happy 
few who had died during the night; and these 
were dragged forth with indignities which fell 
on the sympathizing survivors, not on them! 
Next came the selection of the victims of the 
day. Many were hurried out as their names 
were successively called over. For the females | 
of the lately arrived group, one chance of life 
remained. It was permitted to each republican 
soldier to choose from among the condemned 
one woman to be acknowledged as his wife. 
The same privilege existed with regard to chil- 
dren; and, being exercised with unbounded 
humanity, many an adopted infant of Royalist, 
and often of noble blood, has been ushered to 
the world; and numbers, no doubt, at this 
moment exist as the reputed offspring of re- 
yolutionary parents. 

Upon every new arrival in the prisons, the 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 7 


well-disposed of the soldiery came in to exer- 
cise this right, and a party now waited for ad- 
mission. 

When the previously allotted victims were 
drawn out for execution, this band of expectants 
were ushered in. They entered quickly on 
their scrutiny ; but being actuated by humanity 
much more than passion, the selection was not 
a matter of difficulty or delay. All the women 
of the little group were instantly chosen forth 
but one. Need I name her? Who could have 
chosen Jeannette? It wasimpossible. She was 
looked at but to be turned from; and showing 
no sort of interest in her own fate, she excited 
the less regard from others. She finally re- 
mained behind with three or four men, for 
whom there was no hope. Of these, two saw 
their wives led forth in the possession of their 
respective claimants ; and, dead to every feeling 
of their own fate, they now called for death 
with an eager alacrity—throwing themselves at 
the feet of the soldiers, embracing their knees, 


and calling down blessings on the preservers of 


A 
918 LA VILAINE TETE. 


those for whom alone they ever thought of 
life. 

One by one the prisoners disappeared, either 
to be sacrificed or saved. Jeannette, who lay 
extended in a remote and darkened corner of 
the room, insensible to what was passing, at 
length raised her head, and looking round the 
chamber, found that she was alone. Horrible 
as was her solitude, it gave her some relief. 
She felt free to give vent to the accumulated 
anguish of so many days, and she, not unwill- 
ingly, discovered that her cheeks were flooded 
with tears. She gave herself up to the full 
abandonment of her sorrow, and sobbed and 
sighed aloud. The centinel who paced outside 
the grating heard the unexpected sounds, for 
he thought the chamber totally untenanted. 
He entered, and saw the miserable figure of 
our heroine reclined upon her straw. Asto- 
nished at the oversight which had left her 
behind, he approached and gently raised her 
up. He asked, in soothing terms, for his heart 
was touched, ** Why had she not been brought 


LA VILAINE TETE. 219 


out with the other prisoners?” She knew not 
why. “ Had she no friend in Nantes?” She 
had no friend any where. ‘Did she know any 
republican, civil or military?” She never knew 
but one, and he was now dead. ‘“ What was 
his name?” “ La Coste.” “Where did he 
die?” “He was killedin La Vendée.” ‘“ Had 
she any memorial of his which might be recog- 
nised by his friends?” ‘ Yes, a black silk 
handkerchief”—taking it from her head, and 
handing it to the soldier. “ Only this ? nothing 
more?” ‘Oh! yes, some of his handwriting” 
—producing the scrap of scribbled paper. The 
soldier rejecting the first rather questionable 
token of identity, took the latter; uncreased, 
refolded, smoothed, and looked at it attentively, 
in hopes of its affording some clew by which to 
discover who was the writer. While he was 
thus occupied, Jeannette felt as if her existence 
was renewed; as if another spring had burst 
out in the desert of her bosom; and being in- 
stinctively impressed with the belief that she 
now might learn the sentiments of him whom 
she had so tenderly loved, she entreated the 


A 
220) LA VILAINE TETE. 


soldier to read the manuscript aloud. But 
while the centinel prepared to read, the clat- 
tering of footsteps broke in upon her reverie, 
and the jailor, with some soldiers of the guard, 
quickly entered the room. With violent exe- 
crations they accused the centinel of having 
purposely concealed Jeannette, while he on his 
part retorted the reproach upon the jailor. 
The security of the victim was, however, the 
surest means of reconcilement. The dispute 
was soon arranged, and our heroine handed 
over to the accompanying guard, with directions 
to hurry her to the quay, where her compa- 
nions waited only her arrival to proceed to 
embarkation! 'They seized her, and hastened 
her onwards, her face besmeared with a con- 
crete of dust and tears; her clothes torn and 
disordered ; her hair dishevelled and loose upon 
her shoulders, for the handkerchief which had 
bound it was left behind in the prison. All 
these concurrent disfigurements heightened her 
natural defects, and in this state she reached 
the boat. Several of the old and condemned 
of both sexes were already embarked, but not 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 99} 


one female with the least pretensions to youth 
was there. She was pushed over the side by 
the guards, and received on board by the ready 
executioners with a shout of mockery. The 
preparations being all completed, the boatmen 
were in the very act of pushing from the shore, 
when a young soldier, flushed and panting, 
forced his way through the crowd; plunged 
into the water, seized the prow of the boat, and 
cried out loudly, “Hold! I am not too late. 
I choose that girl for my wife.” The object of 
his choice shrieked on seeing him, and as he 
held forth his arms to receive her, she sunk 
fainting on the floor. ‘The guards, the prisoners, 
the lookers on, were all for a moment mute. 
The scene was so quick, and the choice so 
inexplicable, that no time was given for com- 
ment, conjecture, or opposition. A moment 
more and the boat pushed off—but lightened 
of its wretched freight, for the insensible Jean- 
nette was borne triumphantly to land, in the 
nerygus arms of the grateful and generous La 
Coste. 

I must not now linger on my narrative, the 


A 
999 » LA VILAINE TETE. 


interest of which I know to be nearly over. 
Little remains to be told, and that little shall 
be shortly despatched. La Coste hastened to 
explain to his astonished Jeannette, who soon 
recovered her senses, on his bosom, that on the 
morning after their parting, he had succeeded 
in safely making his way to the outposts of the 
republican army, where he arrived just as the 
battle began; that he had escaped unhurt during 
the whole of that dreadful day; that at the 
close of the fight, when victory was no longer 
doubtful, the division to which his regiment 
belonged was ordered off to Nantes by a route 
different from the village ; and that in the mo- 
ment of his departure, finding the impossibility 
of making his way to the cottage, whose half 
consumed ruins he saw smoking from the 
heights, he had intrusted to a chosen comrade 
the task of seeking it, of relating his safety to 
Jeannette, if she still lived, and of delivering 
her the purse which might have been so useful. 

I must not attempt to describe the sensations 
of our heroine on hearing this wondrous recital ; 
nor the grief of La Coste on learning the fate 


A 2 
LA VILAINE TETE. 993 


of his friend. He went on, however, to state 
that, arrived at Nantes, he had been too par- 
ticularly occupied to know of the approach of 
the poor remnant of the villagers, whom report 
had stated to have every soul perished in the 
sack and conflagration of their homes, but that 
he had heard within a few minutes of her adven- 
ture, and ascertained her identity, in a chance 
conversation with the sentry of the prison, a 
man wholly unknown to him, who was relating 
the circumstances to a group of his fellow sol- 
diers. He said that he had but one line of 
action to pursue. He promptly followed it 
and she was now his nominal wife. 

He kept the girl with him under this title 
for three months, but no ceremony had made 
them one. He treated her, however, with a 
tenderness and respect more than is to be found 
in many a legitimate union; but Jeannette 
clearly perceived that gratitude was the only 
spring which actuated his bosom with regard 
to her. She had never hoped for more, nor 
reckoned on so much; yet satisfied and even 
happy, she had some moments of alarm when 


A 


294, LA VILAINE TETE. 


she reflected that stronger feelings might some- 
time or other break the ties which thus bound 
them together. Her apprehensions, and the 
strength of his attachment, were soon put to 
the test, for invasion just then advanced on 
every side; and his regiment, among others, 
was ordered to the frontiers at a notice of one 
day. Jeannette, feeling that she had no further 
claim upon him; that he had overpaid the ser- 
vice she had rendered him; and that such a 
wife as she was could be but an encumbrance 
to such a man as he;—told him frankly, that 
miserable as it would make her, she wished him 
to consider himself perfectly free; and that 
being now able to work her own way in the 
world, she hoped that no delicacy to her would 
make him risk the ruin of his own prospects in 
life. La Coste was delicately and difficultly 
placed. I have said that he was handsome and 
pleasing. His figure and his manners were, in 
those days of equality, a certain passport to the 
best—that was the richest—society in Nantes. 
He was very generally admired, and had been 
particularly distinguished by the daughter of a 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 995 


wealthy and violent republican. She was beau- 
tiful and accomplished. She had solicited his 
attentions, and he had even a regard for her 
person. Had he married her, he was certain 
of both rank and riches;—but if he did so, 
what was to become of Jeannette? He summed 
up in one of those mental moments, which can 
grasp at a glance such multitudes of calcula- 
tions, the manifold advantages of such a match. 
—He then turned towards Jeannette, and 
though I cannot say that looking on her face 
made him “forget them all,” I may safely as- 
sert, that picturing to himself her forlorn and 
desolate perspective, he felt some spell strong 
enough to make him renounce the mighty 
temptations to abandon her.—The struggle was 
short, for he married her on the moment, and 
the next morning they marched off together 
for the seat of war.—How many ready mouths 
will exclaim, “ He only did his duty!” Would 
that such duties were more commonly per- 
formed! 

For twenty-one years La Coste served as a 

VOL. I. Q 


A 
926 LA VILAINE TETE. 


private soldier. He was brave and well con- 
ducted, but he had not the good fortune of 
promotion. For this entire period Jeannette 
was his faithful and affectionate wife. She 
earned, by her industry, sufficient to add some 
scanty comforts to his barrack-room or his tent. 
Through Germany, Italy, and Spain, she at- 
tended him in many a bloody campaign, and 
stood unflinching by his side in many an hour 
of peril and distress; and at length, after all, 
watched by his death-bed in his native town 
when peace gave him time to die. They had 
one daughter, beautiful and good. She, too, 
married a soldier, who was discharged when 
war became out of fashion; and following his 
trade of gardening, he now supports with com- 
fort his wife and five children, and gives refuge 
to his mother-in-law, whose declining years do 
not prevent her from usefully exerting her 
talents as a washerwoman. 

I have seen the whole group in a cottage, 
which I thought happier than some homes of 
prouder dimensions; or sporting in their garden, 


A 
LA VILAINE TETE. 997 


which is as fragrant and flourishing as others 
surrounding less enviable, though more refined, 
societies. Jeannette, or, if the reader should 
prefer the title, Madame La Coste, has not lost 
her appellation of La vilaine téte, and, perhaps, 
her claim to it is somewhat strengthened by 
the ravages and wrinkles of increasing age, 
and the deep bronzing of the southern sun. 
This tale was given from her own recital, and 
most likely the reader requires not to be told 
that my old washerwoman, of the village in 
Medoc, was herself the identical heroine. If 
I have sometimes enlarged on the details, or 
substituted my own language for that of the 
narrator, I have probably done mischief, when 
I thought I was embellishing. The effect pro- 
duced on me was, perhaps too, overrated in 
my estimate of its possible power on others— 
while sitting before me in my inn bed-room, 
my old and ugly washerwoman broke suddenly 
off from counting my linen to the subject of her 
own eventful story; and carelessly lolling on 
her chair, commenced, with the naiveté of a 
peasant, and in the untranslateable idiom of 


A 
998 LA VILAINE TETE. 


La Vendée, to tell her simple tale; interrupted 
often by sighs for her husband, her grand- 
mother, and her native village, whose name 
now hardly exists but in her memory. 


END OF VOL. I. 


LONDON: 
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS. 


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